


Trickster's Gambit

by Andartha



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Redemption with a twist, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andartha/pseuds/Andartha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the attack on New York, Clint can't shake the feeling that the Trickster isn't as gone for good as people would like to believe.</p><p>He might even be right about that. </p><p>But who's gonna believe an Agent who was so badly compromised?</p><p>If he wants to hunt down the psycho who brought him low, he'll have to do it on his own. </p><p>And it will mean facing his most nightmarish memories, for only they can help him put together the pieces and tell him where to find his prey.</p><p>Can the Hawk uncover Loki's end-game before it's to late?</p><p>And what is it that the trickster's been hiding all along?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burned

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers. They belong to Marvel. Like all the other fans, I only get to play with them a bit, in an entirley non-profit kind of way.
> 
> I only watched "Avengers" this last weekend, and I've been firmly hooked on Loki/Clint Barton ever since. It took all of a day and a night for the plot of this particular story to take root and bloom into a story.
> 
> The first bit is quite tame, but things will go a bit downhill from there ^_~
> 
> Set post-movie.

The more he thinks about it, the less right it seems.

They're missing something.

His guts tells him it’s something big.

It's becoming more evident with each hide-out they bust.

He remembers them all.  
Remembers where they are and what kind of equipment they should be holding. What kind of personnel was guarding it.

One of the two baby-sitters that have been assigned to him on a semi-permanent basis scowls and runs his fingers over one of the lab-table counter-tops and it comes back spotless.

This is the sixth place they've hit, and just like the others, it's empty.  
Even most of the furniture is gone.  
The trash has been taken out and the carpet's vaccuumed.  
There's not even a single finger-print to be had.

Going by the tersely whispered communication going on in the background, where one of the agents is talking with his liaison on one of the other teams, the others have lucked-out as much as he has.

Eyes narrowed, he surveys the lab once more. There’s not so much as a broken petri-dish lying around.  
Like the rest of the rooms, it’s been wiped clear of all tell-tale traces, almost down to last dust-mote.  
It's like someone hired a fuckin' team of helpful household brownies.

Or, he snarls inwardly,..... as if he only imagined the whole thing.

But it was real. It WAS.

And as the trickster god's second in command he thought he'd been in on damn well EVERYTHING, so how come he hadn't know about THIS?

After the dust had settled over New York and Loki had been returned to Asgard, where he hopefully was suffering suffering some awfully traditional punishment at the hands of old One-eye, he’d been ready to return to the usual “situation normal, all fucked up” state of affairs.  
Somehow though, the plans and machinations the Trickster God had set in motion while earthside were still running well enough to throw a wrench into the formerly smoothly ticking life of one Clint Barton.

And things hadn’t even looked as bad as they should have at first.

In the heat of the battle, the team welcomed him back, unquestioning, undoubting, following Natasha's lead.

SHIELD of course, especially Fury, who indubitably has his picture printed in the dictionary right beside the entry for "distrust", has been a helluva lot more reserved.

He understands. He does. Really.

In fact, if one of the men under his command during a mission had been as badly compromised as he has been, at best he'd have retired the guy to some quiet out-of-the-way pencil-pushing post where he was under close surveillance until his hair was grey and all inside info he possessed was hopelessly out-of-date.

Thankfully, he’s one of the deadliest weapons in Fury’s armoury, one that Fury dares not leave unused, and so he’s back in the game.

Kinda.

In the first hours after their victory, the rest of the team had celebrated. Drinking. Laughing. Fucking. Eating schawarma.

He'd spent that time being poked and prodded by a swarm of scientists, psychiatrists, toxicologists, you name it, just to make sure he was truly, really, absolutely no longer compromised. After that, he’d made an extensive report to Fury himself, even though he'd been so tired he'd been pretty much swooning in his boots.

It was only to be expected that the rats would leave the sinking ship, so in the wee hours of the morning, when even Tony Stark had gone to bed to sleep it all off, he’d been on a plane halfway around the world, coordinating the raid on whatever resources, alive or not, Loki had left behind.

He'd hoped to buy his way further back into Fury's good graces by delivering each and every of Loki's secrets that he had been privy too.

He’d expected what guards and personnel remained to realize that their own, private little god had gotten his ass handed to him and to make good their escape.  
In a similar situation, he’d have done the same.  
It was the logical thing to do.

But this?  
On a hasty flight, people leave things behind.  
Anything too heavy to carry.  
Anything that might be traceable.  
Anything that can’t be converted into easy cash.

His gaze sweeps around the lab, neat and tidy and empty like the kitchen at a brand new house, all done up for the next interested buyer by an overzealous real estate agent. The only thing that's missing is some fake scent of fresh-baked apple-pie.

The nest is empty, the birds have flown, and he's left looking like a fool at best and a traitor at worst.


	2. Stolen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One should always face one's past well-armed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O.k., so a little bit of introspection was required before I can move on to the action....

Fury's comment on his failure is mercifully brief.

The increased scrutiny he's subject to afterwards lasts hellishly long.

It's almost half a year before they allow him to do so much as sleep unsupervised. It's another half year before he gets his first solo mission again.

He grinds his teeth, blood boiling at the loss of confidence he's suffered due to the trickster's interference...and bears it.

It's not like he has much of a choice.

In the quieter moments he examines and re-examines his memories, trying to unlock the riddle Loki left him with.

It's not like he can keep the memories from coming back to haunt him anyway, so he might as well make use of them, for whatever they're worth.

The shrinks he's still obliged to see have told him to not to close himself off from remembering.

As if he needs to be told.

Lying to yourself is fucking dangerous. It creates blind spots, niches where an enemy can dig in and break you up from within.

As the old adage holds: "Know your enemies and know yourself and you can win a hundred battles without a single loss. If you know neither yourself nor your enemy, you will always endanger yourself".

Even as the blue light seeped beneath his skin, its’ touch oddly soothing, he knew perfectly well which part of him allowed Loki to subvert him.

There’s a reason why Loki turned him, rather than, say, old Nick himself.

Fury doesn’t bow to anybody.

Oh, their commander-in-chief does tactical retreat all right. But in the end, the old bastard has everybody dancing to his tune.

Unlike his agent, Fury would never have found himself entangled in Silvertongue’s honeyed web. At least not for long.

All good liars know about mixing just enough truth with their deceptions so that their victims will swallow their sweet poisons willingly. And Loki can lie with the best of them.

Honesty with himself is a bitter antidote, but one he started taking while he was still in his teens, and its’ continued administration helps take some of the sting out of the Lie-smiths’ barbs.

That he was born to serve is old news.

He realized for the first time the moment he signed up for SHIELD, got his first set of orders… and it felt like coming home.

He needs orders like an arrow needs fletching.

His burning need to fly true, guided by the hand that lets him loose, is part of what makes him such an excellent soldier.

How did Loki put it?

“You were made to be ruled. In the end, you will always kneel.”

By his skill and his devotion, he has earned the right to kneel with an insolent grin, his head held high and with his weapons at his side….

….but in the end, he will kneel.

The question only is: to whom?

He knows his own value and he has never been one to sell himself short.

Up until now, has always decided on WHICH purpose to serve, which lord to bend his knee too.

And he has picked only those that he deemed worthy of his unwavering allegiance, of his loyalty.

Loki took that away.

Loki stole Hawkeyes’ allegiance for himself, with the speed and dexterity of a good pick-pocket and then proceeded to plunder his heart and his mind.

There are still pieces missing….and he’s not sure if he ever will be whole again.

And yet, there are moments where he craves Loki’s presence with the wild desperation of a recovering alcoholic that craves a glass of whiskey.

Just one sip.

Just one mind-touch.

Just once more the high of reveling in the knowledge of his master’s exact desire.

Not feeling even an ounce of doubt.

Not questioning his orders even for the breadth of a moment.

And afterwards, feeling the bone-deep satisfaction of his master flood his system when he delivers above and beyond expectations.

Fury’s “Well done, Agent” somehow just doesn’t measure up by comparison.

Tony’s “Hell YEAH!!! Right in the kisser! Well done Locksley!” over the comm?

Steve’s appreciative nod in his direction?

Banner whistling admiringly under his breath?

Natascha quirking her eyebrow at him, one of those little mad-dash smiles playing around her lips that shows him that they’re ready to take on the world?

They DO make him feel warm inside.

They make him stand up straight, because they reassure him that he’s part of some higher purpose. That he’s doing the right thing.

They see to it that in the mornings, he can look himself in the eye in the mirror without flinching.

They’re still only a pale shadow compared to the shining glory of basking in the heat of Loki’s approval.

But if a stupid alcoholic can manage to survive without the drug of his choice, then so can he.

 

 


	3. Split

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he remembers losing himself in the thrall, he uncovers what might be the key to his questions.

 

It’s half-past three in the morning and sleep eluded him hours ago.

It’s the first anniversary of the day he was compromised.

His suit and tie are already sitting out on the clothes-rack, freshly pressed and somber like crows picking at the last bits of meat on a strung-up skeleton.

He remembers every single one of the SHIELD operatives falling to his arrows, one familiar face after another, their eyes wide with shock and recognition.

After it was all over, he went to the funerals. Each and every one of them.

Whatever Natasha might say, he’s not going to let himself forget.

Never.

Never again.

 

Within the next days, his calendar is stuffed full with one memorial service after another.

As it will be the year after, and the year after that.

 

He can’t bring them back to life, but he owes them at least this much.

Natascha's grown tired of trying to talk him out of this and she's promised to come by at six and pick him up.

 

Normally, when he can’t sleep, he’d go down to the range and practice.

But he won’t touch his bow.

Not today.

Instead, he brings up every high, every moment of elation, every scrap of pleasure he felt while he was Loki’s.

They shine like bright silver coins in his memory, a magical treasure that weighs heavily on his soul.

If he’s lucky, with time the grief and tears he sees on the faces of those left behind, the parents, the husbands and wives, the daughters and sons….

…..it’s his silent prayer, his whispered plea that with time they’ll help tarnish the pleasure, blunt the elation, corrode the unbridled joy, the feeling of being complete when he was at his master’s side.

 

The memory he’s reflecting on, for what seems just like one time too many, is one of the most intense, even if it’s far from being one of worst.

And suddenly it hits him and the key to his questions unfolds like a flower, baring the seed of an answer.

 

_He’s reviewing their most recent new members, trying to make up his mind which of them to assign to his personal team for their next heist._

_Holmbrecht, Dieter. Ran a neo-nazi cell in Germany. He’s been on the run ever since the Bundesverfassungsschutz tagged him as the perp in a bomb attack on a local mosque that killed 87 people, twenty of which were kids. Used to be in the army and has been deployed to Afghanistan as a bomb disposal expert. Worked as a licensed buildings blaster in the private sector once he returned. SHIELD had a really good lead on his whereabouts and his funds were running low. Add in the fact that the guy’s a germanic neo-pagan and he gladly jumped at the chance to work for a Norse God._

_Ragusa, Marco. Worked as an killer for the Italian Cosa Nostra. His specialty are drive-by shootings. Had to make a run for it after he killed two shield-agents and a hostage in an extortion racket gone bad. The Family blames him for messing it up and the little asshole has no where else left to go but to here. Getting picked up by Loki’s team probably saved his life._

_Boerhave, Lennard. Merc. Close combat expert. Good with knives. Worked as part of security for a big diamond mining company. Had to make a run for it after local authorities in Johannesburg took exception to his sideline job. Looks like the guy made quite a bit of money, hunting down albinos and dismembering them, so he could sell their body parts to local witch-doctors. Too bad his accounts in Switzerland have been frozen._

_His spanking brand-new assistant, a guy they broke out of a high-security prison only yesterday and who looks like an unassuming accountant, wire-rimmed spectacles and all, but who ran a highly successful for-hire hacker and computer-fraud ring, hands him a cup of coffee. Black and so strong you could stand a spoon in it, just what he needs right now. It’s been over 30 hours since he last slept._

_The man is one of the few that the trickster god “persuaded” to join them with the help of his blue-glowing spear, and the man is cautious to the point of paranoia, so he doesn’t need to test the steaming hot beverage for GHB or some other drug someone might have slipped in._

_There are draw-backs to leading a bunch of criminals, most of them overly ambitious and greedy._

_He keeps a very close eye on his new boss. He doesn't want any of the guys here getting the wrong ideas and maybe make a bid for leadership. Not that any of them are even remotely the equal of a Norse God. Still, dealing with such an impromptu uprising would cost them time, not something they can afford right now._

_As he riffles through the paperwork and sips his coffee, he watches the Asgardian talking with one of the scientists while examining the shiny technological toy the man has come up with. Something to do with blocking all video and voice transmission in a certain area without creating a visible hole in the communication network._

_Loki is trying to convey some technical concept to the guy, whose eyes are alight with the nerdy kind of exitement that seems rampant with all scientist when they come across a novel concept that has the potential to revolutionize their specialty._

_Someone once mentioned Asgardian technology being so advanced that it was indistinguishable from magic. Bringing Loki together with scientists, some of them with criminal records longer than his arm and with less conscience than a cockroach, is like giving the remote-control to a rocket launch pad to a mal-adjusted five year old._

_The Trickster's hands move animatedly as he talks, rising and falling, pointing, circling....as elegant and sinous in their movement as a ballet dancer._

_Add in the dark hair, if not the smooth alabaster skin, and Loki reminds him of the people around the meditarranean, all smiles and hand-waving when they're enjoying a conversation._

_He catches himself thinking that Loki would not look out of place sitting in a quaint little café at some port in a little village along the Cote d'Azur, on a balmy summer evening; discussing Renoir's painting style, the societal impact of the Dreyfuß affair and french-american diplomatic relationships, all at the same time, over a dark-red glass of the finest Merlot._

_He catches himself thinking how badly he want to go for his gun and shoot the bastard. He is packing some explosive rounds that carry enough power to blow holes into the hull of an armoured tank. If he manages to hit the eye, the ensuing explosion should be bad enough to take even an Asgardian._

_But no matter how much he wills his hand to move, to reach for his gun, it doesn't even tremble._

_When Loki first subverted him, he was screaming inside, clawing and beating at the inner walls of his mind with a ferocity of a trapped bear and his self-control was still good enough so he didn't shoot to kill when he aimed for Fury or Maria._

_Now, he can't even hold on to the thought that he wants to, needs to kill the Trickster. The thought is slipping out of his hands, as wispy and slippery as a bit of smoke and the last bit of himself that's still HIM, that's still Agent Barton, Hawkeye of SHIELD is dissipating yet a bit more with it._

_All of the SHIELD agents that he came across within the last 10 hours are dead._

_Loki glances up at him and their eyes lock across the room. A terse little smile is playing around the trickster's lips, sharp like a shard of freshly broken glass. He KNOWS. He can feel Loki sitting at the back of his mind, holding his leash, watching him struggle as he holds on to the ledge, hands scrabbling for a better handhold, trying not to fall into the yawning abyss of oblivion that Loki opened up beneath him. When he falls, he will be Loki's for good, no going back. By the rate that he’s been deteriorating, he has three days left at most. The earth will fall to Loki and the Chitauri in less than two._

_The knowledge that soon, all that will be left is the thrall…..it should terrify him….but the part of him that BELONGS to Loki, heart, skin and bone, wants it as badly as a little boy lost in the woods longs for his parents voices, longs to be hugged and held and to be told that everything will be alright._

_With a nod, Loki dismisses the scientist who scuttles off with a gleeful smile pasted on his lips, eager to fulfill whatever task he's been set. As eager to please the god as the thrall that Clint Barton has become._

_"How are we doing Agent Barton?"_

_"Good sir. Our cell in Bukarest has managed to obtain the prototype of the cold fusion reactor that Selvig wanted. The cells in Singapore and Mexico are giving SHIELD the run-around. We've recruited a further 60 highly trained soldiers within the last 4 hours and we should be up to full strenght within the next three hours."_

_With the slowly spreading smirk on Loki's face comes a rush of pleasure that is headier than cocaine, more exhilarating than picking of a target that he's been pursuing for months, hotter than the kiss of the most experienced whore in Bangkok._

_His breath hitches and a fine shiver runs down his spine._

_Loki notices and the smirk deepens._

_„I take it you can afford a bit of downtime then?"  
_

_"If we are to stay on schedule? About four hours, sir." And that's good, because both the thrall and the Agent in his mind agree that he needs some goddamn fucking sleep if he's to stay fully functional._

_"Perfect. Because there's something I need to get done, but so far, in the greater scheme of things, it's been rather low priority. Call it an indulgence of mine if you will."_

_And Loki smiles and what remains of Agent Barton feels his heart drop to the pit of his stomach because that smile promises that someone will get hurt._

_"Tell me Agent....assuming that by a fortunate coincidence, a hated enemy soldier had fallen into your hand. However you have little time and you can’t afford him to be damaged too much, because you need him well and in fighting shape for your purposes. But you do wish to hurt him. Badly. To bring him low. How could you achieve that?”_

_The answer to that one is easy. Warfare has many ugly faces and he has seen all of them._

_His voice is flat and emotionless as he spells it out._

_"Rape."_

_Lokis' smile spreads into a wide, wide smirk, like blood spreading in water. He taps his lips with hands pressed straight together, as if for prayer, and the gleam in his eyes brightens to one of raptorial anticipation._

_"Agent Barton?"_

_"Yes, sir?"_

_"I need a suite in a high class hotel. As close as possible to here. And I need it NOW."_

_It takes just a few taps on his tablet pc and a short call to fulfill the order. The thrall makes sure that there's no way any of it can be connected either to Loki or Agent Barton._

_Inside of him, Agent Barton is suddenly more awake and aware than he has been for hours and cursing up a blue streak._

_Had he really been worried about somebody slipping him some GHB in his coffee just a few moments ago? Well fuck, obviously he needs to re-calibrate his thinking where it comes to threat-assessment, since Loki's blue-glowing scepter clearly is more effective than any old-fashioned human date-rape drug._

_It's happend once before. He'd been a newly trained agent, old enough to kill but not old enough to drink and his orders had been to infiltrate a human trafficking ring on the Balkans. Things had gone well, until his cover had been blown through as stupid, stupid coincidence. The only reason he was still alive was because the local leader of the ring had decided that he wanted to see him humiliated and broken before killing him. It had taken SHIELD four days to realize what was going on and come break him out._

_He'd survived and he'd learned to deal with the after-effects. It had been either that or give up being an agent...and he was not give up his service for SHIELD for anything. And neither was he going to grant his tormentors the post-humous victory of leaving him broken._

_The nightmares had stopped the day he had managed to ferret out the last member of the trafficking ring and killed him, like he had killed all the others. It had taken him nine months, and not nine days as his original orders had specified._

_These days, the only thing that still burned him about the whole affair was that the mastermind behind the ring hand gone underground when SHIELD had barged in, trying to save him. In the months it had taken him to locate and then take down everybody involved with the ring, including the boss, the human trafficking had continued. To this day, no one knew all of the victims or where they had disappeared to._

_Calmly quoting the address of the hotel and the room number to the Norse God, he’s inwardly seething with a black rage and his guts are tied up in knots._

_He’s hanging on to himself by a thread. Will he still be able to, while the jade-eyed psycho subjects him to a re-run of an experience that almost broke him the last time round? Goddamn fuckin’ shit._

_He helplessly watches himself shrug into a coat and trail after Loki like an obedient puppy. Loki looks back at him, that bloody smirk still pasted to his lips, and reaches out for him, touching his shoulder._

_They’ve done this before and so he keeps straight on walking beside his master as the scenery around him fades and shifts and all of a sudden, they’re no longer walking through the dusty corridors of their makeshift headquarters, but through the luxurious, tasteful entrance hall of the Bristol Hotel in Odessa._

_Loki’s clothes have changed to an elegant, dark umber suit with a crisp white lawn shirt and an emerald silk tie…something that’s akin in quality to the stuff Stark will wear. Stark pulls that look off with the air of a hedonistic rake straight out of the Renaissance. On the Trickster God, it screams dangerously spoiled, delinquent brat._

_Within seconds, they have picked up their key at the reception and are headed for the elevators. As the door dings shut behind him, Loki turns to face him. He reaches up with one hand and runs his fingers through his thralls short blond hair. Agent Barton’s hands begin to tremble and Loki laughs, delighted like child at the circus that has seen a monkey perform an unexpectedly clever trick._

_“My my….look who’s come out of hiding. Welcome home, Agent Barton.”_

_The grip on Hawkeye’s hair tightens at the back of his nape and Loki yanks him around so he ends up facing the elevators’ mirror, Loki pressed tight to his back, watching him over his shoulder._

_The blue glow in his eyes is the thrall’s._

_The shining hatred beneath it is all his own._


	4. Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this story, would you mind leaving a review? I just got into this fandom two weeks ago, it's eating my brains, and I desperately need people to fangirl with!

The suite is an opulent study in the fancier aspects of Rococo. The Bed is a huge four-poster affair with sheets white as snow and a baldachin of diaphanous alabaster silk above the top half. Opposite the bed there’s a love-seat and a set of chairs, the slimly curving legs and backrests done in pale gold wood that is wrought with curlicues. They’re upholstered with dark-green velvet that matches the drawn drapes.

It’s the kind of romantic honeymoon set-up that would make a freshly married bride squeal with delight.

For his part, he’s close to puking his guts out, his heart is pounding away at a mile a minute and his mouth has gone dry as the Gobi desert.

Loki has reverted to his usual medieval-style outfit and has settled down comfortably on the love-seat, leaving his thrall standing in front of the bed.

He’s trying not to look the god in the face, which is partly due to the thrall, who wishes to show his deference to his master, and partly due to himself, who, right here and now, can’t bear to look at the triumphant sneer on Loki’s face.

All the way from the elevator to here, when he noticed that his hands, his, not the thrall’s, were trembling, he’s been desperately fighting to regain more control of his body.

He’s breathing hard, sides heaving with the effort, but nothing. NOTHING.

The thrall will only let him move as long as he makes NO move whatsoever that has even a remote chance of somehow defying his master. And since he is also the thrall, the thrall knows, instantly, even when the move starts innocently enough.

“Agent Barton?”

“Yes……sir?” A small pause in his speech, innocuous enough. But it’s more than he had an hour ago. Whatever the price, he needs to keep up his struggle. He mustn’t lose the hope that sooner or later, he will break free. Somehow.

“I wish to see you, Agent Barton.”

The trickster’s voice is barely above a whisper and there’s a haunting, hollow note to it, like the wind whistling across the empty steppe.

“All of you. Strip.”

His weapons and his body armour are the first things to go. He moves slowly, as if fighting a harsh wind, trying to take his time as he neatly arranges his things on one of the chairs. The tools of his trade blend with the delicate chairs like a Hell’s Angel would blend in with the debutantes at the Vienna Opera Ball.

Vest.

Shirt.

His upper body is naked now and the trickster’s eyes are burning on his skin like sunrays concentrated through a magnifying glass. He remembers the short conversation between Loki and Director Fury and can’t help but think of a sadistic kid burning ants on the sidewalk on a sunny day.

He kneels to take off his boots. They’re special issue, a high-tech fabric that’s supple and yet solid enough to protect his feet from projectiles, and it’s fitted with a flexible, yet durable sole made for swift running, silent sneaking and difficult climbing. Having them designed had been Coulson’s idea. Something up to par with SHIELD’S Hawkeye’ very special skill set, Phil had said.

There are throwing knives in a hidden compartment, barely larger than a needle, but he’s been known to kill with them. It would take but the blink of an eye to slide them out of their hiding place and palm them, he tries, he even undoes the latch on one of pockets….and then he sets the boots aside, the knives still inside.

Loki chuckles.

Socks.

Pants.

Briefs.

He’s naked.

And something he hasn’t been for more than a decade: completely unarmed.

His mouth is dry and he swallows.

He shoots a glance towards the Trickster God. Loki’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded, eyes filled with the kind of hunger one would expect in a starved wolf.

“Agent Barton?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want you on the middle of the bed, on your back. And spread your legs for me.”

The sheets beneath him feel crisp and clean as he climbs atop them, the scent of freshly washed cotton at odds with how soiled he feels.

As he settles into position, he can hear the hard click of Loki’s boots on the hardwood floor as the Trickster approaches. He pauses at the bottom of the bed, raking his eyes over the naked body laid out before him and there’s an appreciative gleam in his eyes…and Clint can feel himself flush. With anger. With hatred. With embarrassment.

 

If past experience is anything to go by, his face has just gone beet-red.

He expects the Trickster to chuckle at his obvious bodily reaction…to make some snide remark about the weakness of humans…but no. There’s just an intense kind of focus settling over the Trickster, one that parallels the keen attention the scientists paid the Tesseract.

Loki hasn’t undressed. Even the long coat is still on, including the armoured shoulder piece. Way to stress who’s top dog around here. Asshole. Clint snarls and he can feel his lips curl so that his teeth show.

Unfazed, Loki crawls on top of him, lodging one knee right beneath Clint’s balls and the other beside his right thigh. He holds himself above Clint, arms slightly bent, an unholy amusement now twinkling in his eyes. Briefly, he bends down to nuzzle the sensitive spot of skin just behind his thrall’s ear, and goose-bumps run over Clint’s arms. The thrall turns his head, giving his master better access. A nip to the earlobe, and the thrall sharply inhales, his insides going tight with delighted anticipation.

Whatever Loki has planned…it looks like it’s not going to be anything at all like what they did in the Balkans. No dirty, broken floor, with splinters digging into his knees and hands. No hits to the stomach that leave him puking, unable to resist while he’s pushed down and into position. Hawkeye is not sure if it’s a good thing.

Loki backs up a bit and, gripping his thrall’s chin, forces Clint to look at him.

“Say, Agent Barton. Do you hate me?”

“Yes”. The word, once spoken, calls the feeling to the front. Clint welcomes the hatred’s renewed heat coursing through his veins, heady like old whiskey. He plans to get well and truly drunk on it. Maybe if he can immerse himself in his hatred deep enough, there won’t be enough of him left to feel what the God is doing to him.

He knows that Loki can feel his hatred. Feels how Loki regards it with the same amusement that a cat might feel when confronted with a squeaking mouse. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he has to keep trying to hold on to himself…has to keep trying to find a way out.

Loki laughs quietly and moves back down. Clint can feel the mattress give way as the Trickster settles between his captive’s legs.

“Look at me. Look at me and don’t turn away unless I tell you otherwise.”

The trickster is poised over his thrall’s thighs, his mouth but inches away from the Agent’s limp cock. His breath feels hot on Clint’s skin.

Loki’s tongue flicks out, pink and narrow, and laves the head.

Agent Barton got himself circumcised when he entered the SHIELD. He’d known that missions would take him to some pretty unsavoury places, where a proper wash might be impossible for months, and he hadn’t favoured the thought of getting jungle rot on his junk. Not having a foreskin made keeping clean easier and reduced the risk of infection. The ensuing loss of sensitivity hadn’t been too bad, but he had ended up needing longer and more intense stimulation in order to come.

The tongue that’s tracing a languid pathway across his glans is slightly rough, more like that of a cat than that of a human, and the intense sensation sends a different kind of fire exploding along his nerves.

He gasps, hates himself for it, and Loki feeding him his satisfaction at his thrall’s reaction along their mind-link just pushes home the point that he’s holding a losing hand in this game.

What comes next makes him feel like he’s pushed the panic switch on a jet’s ejection seat and is now tumbling through the air, out of control, unable to tell up from down.

Lick.

Pause.

Lick.

Fire racing through his veins, making his heart pound.

A hot tongue running slowly up and down his hardening cock.

The firm pressure of a kiss to his balls.

The tip of a finger stroking his perineum and the thrall spreads his legs some more, wider, to give his master better access.

Agent Barton is panting hard…and it takes every inch of his self-control not to push forward with his hips, towards that hot and wet mouth, begging for more. For harder, faster.

Loki’s mouth is flush against the rock-hard length of his thrall’s erection and Agent Barton can feel the bastard’s mouth curve in a smile against his flesh. He growls, the harsh sound abruptly snapped off as Loki obliges to his captive’s unvoiced desire and slides his mouth all the way down.

And Agent Barton’s mind goes blank, not with the blue glow of being overtaken, but with the blinding heat that comes with pushing deep into the welcoming mouth of a lover.

That rough tongue is rubbing along the underside of his dick, its’ rhythm sometimes fast and sometimes slow, but never something he can anticipate. Loki will pull back some, then push forward, more, deeper, so that, not before long, instead of hitting the palate, the tip of his glans is gliding down the trickster’s throat, the convulsing pressure of the man swallowing around his length pulling unwilling moans of desire from him.

Agent Barton catches himself reaching downward, wanting to bury his fingers in the silky softness of lanky black hair.

The movement is all his own, no thrall involved.

In combat situations, conscious thought takes a back-seat and the movements that guide his hands are mostly pure reflex.

In the split-second where he finds himself moving, freely, uncontrolled, he goes for it.

His left hand balls into a fist, his arms pull back, ready to see if a solid hit to the temple is sufficient to temporarily daze a God. The right continues on his way to Loki’s hair, ready to grab, hold on, yank closer, all to better hit the trickster in the face.

Before he’s even halfway there, his body bucks.

Shudders.

Stops.

Falls back.  

Loki doesn’t even pause in his tender ministrations, the unconcern echoing along the mind-link adding insult to the injury.

After this, Agent Barton keeps his hands above his head. If he can’t move to fight, then he’d rather not move at all. He hates the way his hands shake despite this, so bad, the tremors of a drug addict desperate for his next hit would look steady by comparison.

The hand that has been fondling his perineum, with the occasional stroke of a thumb across his balls for variety, disappears for a moment, only to return, slick with some kind of oil.

The tip of a finger rubs across his anal ring, lightly at first, but then with ever more pressure, until the tip suddenly pushes beyond the sphincter and Loki is inside of him.

Hawkeye bucks beneath his captor, hard, unable to hold still as the thrill of being touched THERE and just like THAT explodes through his body like molten rock from the very core of the earth; and he curses himself as he does so, for his lack of discipline, hating himself for his weakness; eyes burning.

*Close your eyes, archer.* His enemies’ voice in his head, gentle, like the illusory warmth that envelops you just before the frost kills you.

For once, he has no problems obeying his enemies’ orders. It’s bad enough that Loki can FEEL his prisoner’s shame, so allowing Clint to hide the helpless desire that’s no doubt written all over his face is a boon that he’ll take gladly, tainted as it is.

Of course, closing his eyes makes him even more keenly aware of the sensation as Loki slowly works his finger in deeper, in step with the burning caress of his tongue along his victim’s rock-hard erection. And then Loki hits that sweet spot deep inside of him and he can’t hold a muffled shout in as the touch sends shockwaves of mindless bliss reverberating through his system.

Fuck.

If the trickster god keeps this up, he’ll be coming before not too long.

After a while, a second finger joins the first, pumping into him, in and out, in and out, widening him, pushing him to the edge.

He can feel the tightening of his balls that speaks of imminent release, but then, abruptly, the mouth withdraws, leaving his cock aching and weeping, and the fingers still their movement inside of him.

Unable to think, swamped in sensation, a soft, mewling, begging sound escapes him, wordless but no less real.

Loki shifts, leaning forward so he can whisper in his ear.

“If I were doing this with a lover, I’d stretch him more, so my entry would be all pleasure, and no pain….but you’re not my lover and this is not supposed to be a romantic tryst, is it?

He feels Loki draw back, the fingers slip out of him and he hears the rustling of cloth. A few heartbeats later, his legs are bent and roughly shoved backwards so his hips tilt upwards, a position that fully exposes him to the Trickster’s assault.

And an assault it is. Loki shoves violently into him and there’s a burning, ripping sensation as the Trickster pushes in to the hilt.

It hurts as bad as a stab-wound to the gut.

Without giving his captive time to adjust, no time at all, Loki pulls back again, almost all the way, only to slam back in, brutally. His defences worn down to almost nothing, Hawkeye tries to hold in a whimper…and fails.

Loki laughs, the sound harsh like breaking ice. He pumps into Clint’s body, the rhythm pounding and unforgiving like heavy artillery fire. It HURTS and the sudden fall from rapturous bliss to unbearable agony is too fast, too sudden for Clint to process.

What’s left of his inner defences is torn to shreds and he can feel tears sting in his still closed eyes and overflow down his cheeks.

Loki slows down.

A bit at first, then more, and finally stops.

He reaches up and Hawkeye feels him intertwining his fingers with his own. Needing something to hold on to….anything to hold on, to give him stability in this world that’s falling apart, he grips Loki’s hands as hard as a drowning man might hold on to a floating piece of driftwood.

For a few heartbeats, there is silence…stillness…only broken by Hawkeyes’ jagged breaths that sound perilously close to sobs.

The pain slowly ebbs, until it is no more than an ache, no worse than a slightly pulled muscle.

Slowly, Loki pulls down their hands, still fiercely clasped together like those of condemned-to-death lovers. He lets them rest on the covers at the height of their shoulders.

“Look at me.”

Clint squeezes his eyes shut more tightly.

*LOOK at me*

Bile rises in his throat and Hawkeye swallows once, hard. Then, slowly, he obeys.

The first thing he notes is that Loki….Loki almost naked save for a wide-open medieval shirt with billowing sleeves….is a beautiful creature, all cream skin and dark-rose nipples.  His ears told him that Loki was undressing (magicking his clothes away?) when he heard cloth rustling earlier on and the skin on skin touch that followed confirmed it.

However, he finds that what he heard has badly prepared him for what he sees. Disregarding the queasy feeling in his stomach, his mouth seems to think it a great idea if he could rise up and lick those nipples….tease them with his tongue and teeth until they hardened under the onslaught. 

What for a fucking brilliant moment for his libido to pipe up. Agent Coulson would say something about his arousal being a normal, physical reaction to external stimulation, but he won’t make excuses to himself like that. Furious at himself, at his body which is betraying him, he reflects on how maybe getting circumcised was too small a step and he should have gotten himself castrated instead.

The second thing he notes is that there is no malice in the Trickster’s face, just something that looks like….sorrow? Bitterness? 

Lord, he must be really out of it, if his brain is trying to con him into thinking that there’s anything akin to a softer human emotion in this psychotic killer.

He can feel his anger flash upward through the link like lightning, and Loki winces, breaking the eye-contact for a second, but then he looks back, grim determination turning his eyes into cold green jade and jaw clenched tight so that his mouth is pressed into a firm line.

“Keep your eyes on mine and don’t break contact. Not until you’re going over the edge.”

And then Loki begins moving again. Small, shallow thrusts. Very, very slowly.

Hawkeye’s half-flagged cock is lying on his belly and Loki lowers himself a bit so it’s squeezed between their bodies. Not too much. Just so it gets some friction as the Asgardian moves on top of it.

Hawkeye’s breath hitches.

The trickster’s going deeper again, still holding the slow pace he set. He’s scraping up against that sweet spot inside of Clint again, and Clint mutters an unbelieving curse as he feels himself grow full and hard once more.

Loki’s features relax somewhat and he takes a deep breath, one that Clint mirrors.

The thrusts grow harder, faster again, and with the burn of friction the pain returns too. Clint tenses up and Loki mutters a soft curse.

The mind-link shifts….expands…and from one moment to the next, the pain is washed away by a wave of blinding arousal.

Not his.

Loki’s.

Clint muffles a scream, bites down, teeth clenched, and he can taste blood where he nicked his lower lip.

Loki pulls back.

Pushes back in.

And Clint defiantly lifts his hips to meet him.

His reward is seeing the Trickster’s eyes go wide and his eyes light with a fire that rivals the sun in its’ heat. The renewed wave of lust that races down the link, flooding through Clints’ body and pooling in his groin, is forceful enough to leave him gasping for breath like a fish on dry land.

He’s not the only one affected. Loki blinks and swallows. Licks his lips. Starts to say something…but then doesn’t.

They breathe, oddly in sync now.

Eyes locked, green on blue, carefully gauging each others’ reaction, they begin to move together.

The archer wraps his legs around the trickster, pulling him deeper inside, and it’s the tricksters’ turn to moan, an edge of bleakness in his voice.

Clint smiles and does it again.

Loki takes up the challenge and pushes in. Faster. Deeper. Rougher.

They writhe on the covers, bucking, twisting, shoving.

What started slow grows frantic, edged.

Clint’s eyes never leave Loki’s, and there’s a part of him that wishes he could see from a distance, wishes he could see clearly, but he’s too close and everything blurs.

Their violent dance on the sheets reaches its’ cusp and Loki rears up, eyes closing, body curved backward like a bow. The sight is the one thing that pushes Clint over the edge and he takes the Trickster with him.

The shared climax mauls them with the ferocity of a hurricane, scattering their thoughts to the howling wind like up-rooted trees.

Clint can feel Loki spilling his seed deep within his body, there’s a slight burn to it as if it were spiked with sharp spices, and then he’s shooting his own load, the pearly liquid spattering up to his chest.

Loki collapses on top of him, and for a good long while, it seems that all which either of them seems is able to do, is to re-learn how to breathe.

Hawkeye can feel the mind-link collapse in on itself, shrinking until it is only a fraction of the size that it was.

He twitches his fingers, which are still intertwined with Loki’s.

There’s no reaction either from the thrall, who seems to have disappeared entirely, or from his “master”.

Letting go of Loki’s hands and making a jab for his eyes with both thumbs, all the while trying to knee the bastard in the groin is one fluid, integrated combat move.

It doesn’t go anywhere.

Loki might not be the fighter Thor is, but he has been trained as warrior. Plus he’s larger than Clint, and inhumanely strong, nevermind his speed that would put a striking rattle-snake to shame.

Dazed and ears ringing from a light blow to the head, he finds himself face-down on the bed, arms twisted painfully behind his back, with Loki kneeling down on his legs.

He hasn’t felt this helpless, this useless, this cornered since Jacques…teacher…mentor…father figure…beat the crap out of him when he discovered Duquesne was embezzling money from the circus, and then left him for dead.

All he can do is bury his head in the soft pillows beneath and scream out his anger, his fear, his hatred of himself and of the monster that took away his freedom.

Loki lets him.

Lets him scream himself almost hoarse.

Lets him buck and twist and kick-out beneath him, even though they both know it is futile.

Lets him vent until he feels hollowed out and spent, a puppet with its’ strings cut.

And then Loki bends down to whisper in his ear once more.

“Obey.”

“NO!”

“Obey me.”

“…no…no…”. It’s more a sob than words.

*OBEY ME*

“Yes.”

And just like that, he can feel the thrall coming back to the forefront, taking over. Taking control.

As Loki gets off him, he sits up, ready to follow his master wherever he may lead him.

Ready to follow whatever orders he might be given.

Loki pushes him back down on the mattress. He doesn’t resist.

Whatever his master wishes to do to him is fine.

But all Loki does is get off the bed and pick up the covers that have been pushed down to the floor during their tussle. He spreads them atop his thrall, tucks him in.

“You still have one hour until you have to be back on your post. You will sleep for a half an hour, soundly and restfully. Then the concierge will make a call to this room to wake you up. Clean yourself then and report back to me.”

The thrall obeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On circumcision:  
> While it might offer benefits e.g. if you’re in a place where hygiene might be an issue, I believe that the one who gets circumcised should be the one who gets to makes the call, not the parents.


	5. Hunted

He’s watched the surveillance footage of Natascha negotiating with the Lie-Smith more times than he can count.

Between the Silvertongue and the Black Widow, even the subtext has subtext.

He prefers to speak his mind plainly and watching those two play cat and mouse with each other is bad enough to give him a headache.

‘Tascha knows he will follow, but never follow blindly, and as a team, as friends, as the chosen-kin they are, they’re far too close for her to leave him in the dark about stuff that’s that important.

He’s already guessed part of it.

It was her who let the Trickster out.

If Natascha hadn’t, there’d been a good possibility that, if SHIELD had managed to stop Clint and his assault-team, the Trickster would have rotted in his cell and the Chitauri invasion would never have happened.

So many lives lost in Manhattan would never even have been in danger.

They might even have been able to capture Loki’s second-in-command alive…

…but it wouldn’t have meant bringing Hawkeye back.

Wouldn’t have saved Clint from disappearing entirely within the next few days, leaving only the thrall behind.

And so Natascha had made a bargain with the lie-smith….had compromised herself to save Clint…and afterwards, she’d been burning to risk her life on the front lines, something that wasn’t her style at all, just to make sure that her deal with the devil didn’t lead to the loss of too many innocent lives.

And his leger had been as red as hers, no matter how often she told him it wasn’t his fault, that there was nothing he could have done to fight off Loki’s mind-tricks.

There’d been only one option: pulling himself together so they could go and throw in their weight to balance the scales once more.

Together.

Natascha’s talent for subtlety is something that never ceases to amaze him, and, in a quiet moment, where they were certain that no-one was listening in and that their environment was bug-free, they’d gotten themselves a few bottles of Vodka and proceeded to get thoroughly smashed while going over their respective play-by-play moves during the whole fiasco.

Watching the footage from Loki’s imprisonment, she pointed out how her unnecessarily explicit statement, that she would NOT let Loki out, even if the Norse God vowed to spare Clint, had actually been an offer to the contrary.

Clint told ‘Tascha about how he’d briefed Loki on the Black Widow. Had given her secrets away like cheap candy at Halloween, all so he could get high on his God’s appreciative attention just one moment longer.

A sly smile had spread over the bastard’s face when he had learned that there was one of his enemies on board the Helicarrier who, for a human, had an acceptable understanding of the concept of “delicate negotiations” and who had a deep enough connection to the Hawk to be susceptible to blackmail.

It had taken Natascha to translate for him for the most part, but when one knew what to look for, the bargaining had been quick and efficient.

"I knew you'd come and I know you want to bargain"

"I want Barton back."

"He's mine. Why should that change?"

"Because your plans for conquest mean nothing as long as you're stuck here."

"What are you willing to pay?"

"I'll betray my side and let you out."

"Prove that you can actually deliver what you're promising."

It had taken a simple bit of slight of hand to show Loki the remote for the door, palmed in Natascha's hand, all without the hidden cameras picking up on it.

“Drakoff’s daughter” had been an allusion he’d understood without explanation. After all, he’d been the one to tell Loki of it.

Natascha had been on a team that had kidnapped the 5 year old daughter of a Russian scientist. Unfortunately, Drakoff had been unable to get Natascha’s team access to his employer’s research facility at the set time, and Drakoff’s daughter had been killed as punishment.

Not by Natascha herself. But the Black Widow had stood aside and let it happen.

She still kept one the girl’s hair-tie in the drawer of her desk. It was decorated with small felt flowers in pale blue and purple.

Loki referring to the death of Drakoff’s daughter had been his promise to the Black Widow that, if she didn’t unlock the door on time…as in right now....Barton would die, just like the girl had.

And Natascha had unlocked that door, then and there, compromising herself. For her partner’s sake.

When Natascha had told him about that, he'd given her a black look that clearly told her what he thought about what she’d done:

For once, Agent Barton agreed with the God of Lies: Setting Loki free and risking the world in the process had been a damnfool deal to make. Unlike Loki though, he was anything but happy that Natascha had made it.

He'd have been better off dead.

Loki had tested the door’s movement by hitting it and, satisfied with the way it budged just the tiniest fraction of an inch, had given ‘Tascha the key to freeing Clint.

Natascha being Natscha, she'd managed to get a bit extra out of the deal, picking up on Loki's primary goal in coming to the Helicarrier: getting Banner to shift to the Hulk and destroy the Helicarrier from within, killing everybody on it as it went down.

For all that he hates to see Natascha getting her hands dirty by dealing with the God of Lies, he had laughed until his sides hurt at Loki’s completely surprised “WHAT?”, the Asgardian dumbfounded by the fact that he’d been outwitted by a mere human.

And if there’d been tears stinging in Clint’s eyes too while he shook with laughter, Natascha had been kind enough not to mention it, filling up his glass and saluting him instead.

As it turned out, Loki had kept his end of the bargain too, and "splitting Barton's skull" had worked just fine as far as bringing Clint back went. 

Loki had really planned that one well.

The Trickster had been told about Natascha long before Stuttgart.

Long before the events that ended Loki up on the Helicarrier.

He’d know his bargaining chip would be Agent Barton.

Or rather the information on how to turn Agent Barton back.

There had been no guarantee that Natascha would be able to put the info to use, and Loki might have well walked away free from the whole thing with his Second by his side.

So…

Hawkeye had been a weapon in Loki’s hand. A valued weapon, a deadly weapon. Loki’s glee when he found out just how dangerous and how effective his newest toy was had echoed down the link, clear as a bell.

Loki had known that Hawkeye would turn those skills against his former master if SHIELD got him back.

But if there was a risk that you’d have to return a weapon to an enemy that you still might have to fight, you made sure that that weapon was as flawed as possible. Maybe even boobie-trapped.

How badly would it have undermined Natascha’s morale and efficiency, to sacrifice her loyalty to her new family, only to find that the deal had been rigged and that there was nothing left of the Hawkeye she knew? Nothing but a broken, suicidal shell, a wreck of a man who would never recover from what had been done to him?

Loki could have arranged that. Easy.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, when Natascha had punched Loki’s second-in-command so hard that he lost consciousness, Agent Barton had been close enough, and most importantly, strong enough to take back over.

And it had been thanks to Loki.

Whenever Agent Barton was in danger of coming undone for good, Loki would pull him aside and do something that brought him back full force, for a short while at least.

He remembers lying face-down on that bed, Loki on top of him, holding him down, twisting his arms until it felt like his shoulder-joints would pop whenever he made another pointless effort to break free. Screaming. Shaking with anger, hatred, helplessness….but fully himself.

It stabilized him, even as Loki made sure that the thrall was the one who stayed in the drivers’ seat.

As far as destroying his enemies went, finding the chinks in their armour and mercilessly driving the dagger in….Loki had held back.

He could have broken Agent Barton with little to no effort.

Instead, he had picked on old fears and weaknesses that Clint could DEAL with, if not easily, then certainly effectively….and, most importantly, short term. Had actually HELPED him deal with it.

Why?

Why had Loki seen to it that both the Assassin and the Spy had been ready to fight when the Trickster made his bid, both at full strength and with an axe to grind?

It didn’t make sense.

Not for an invading conqueror, hell-bent on defeating his enemies and setting himself up as the new king.

Not for a narcisstic sociopath who took sadistic pleasure in his opponents emotional turmoil.

No.

No matter how he turns it…it just doesn’t sync.

Once he’s realized that, he begins to look for other evidence.

It’s elusive, but he’s getting better at reading that kind of stuff, a bit, and when he starts looking at things from a different angle, a pattern emerges.

It’s like fractal art, hiding a recurring theme somewhere between what might be lies and what might be truth.

On arrival, Loki had stated that he was “burdened” with glorious purpose. Not “coming with glorious purpose” or “called to a glorious purpose”….but burdened. Which implied someone who had put that “burden” on the Lie-Smith.

Looked like there might be a third party involved.

If the Trickster’s target had not been set by himself…then Loki had been likely to resent that.

Pride was one of the seven deadly sins, and Loki had it aplenty.

Someone so focused on becoming the ruler of something, of anything? Someone like that would HATE being bossed around by somebody else.

Come to think of it, the Asgardian had been in bad shape when he arrived, pale, covered in sweat, with dark circles under his eyes, and moving slowly, hesitantly when he could, as if in pain.

Coming through the gateway of the Tesseract might have accounted for that. Could have been a bit of rough ride.

Or someone had roughed the Trickster up, trying to make sure that the Lie-Smith was scared enough to stick to the plan.

What if there'd really been someone else yanking Loki's chain?

When Fury had asked Loki if he planned to step on humanity, the answer hadn’t really been “yes”.

Instead, the Asgardian had launched into a little speech about coming with “tidings of a world made free….free from freedom”.

Clint actually had to look up “tidings” to make sure he got the meaning right. The dictionary gave “tidings” as “news, information or intelligence about something”. People had assumed that Loki had been talking about Earth and the future….but that might not have been the case. Could’ve been another world, a different world, one recently conquered.

The bit of being “free from freedom”? Might’ve been just coincidence, but that was an actual quote from an american social writer, Eric Hoffer. Hoffer had said that young Nazis had flocked to Hitler’s mass movement, because they had wanted to escape individual responsibility, had wanted to be “free from freedom”.

Assuming that Loki coming up with that quote hadn’t been just a fluke, then how the hell had a Norse God become familiar with the works of an american social writer?…And why had he compared whoever had conquered that other world, if there was indeed another world, and he wasn’t just seeing stuff that wasn’t there, to the Nazis?

Had the Trickster been trying to warn them of the Chitauri ahead of time?

If so, they had failed to pick up on it. None of them spoke Subtle like that, and ‘Tascha hadn’t been there to translate. They’d all just assumed that, just like the Red Skull before him, Loki had planned to fuel his conquest of earth with local troops.

Had lost them time for preparation, ‘cause they hadn’t learned about the imminent Chitauri invasion until Thor told them about it, much later.

Another thing.

Stark had regaled them with the tale of his verbal sparring with the Norse God more than once. He’d been practically crowing with delight over the fact that the Avengers had kicked Loki’s butt, just as Stark had told the Trickster that they would.

He’d gloated over how bad an idea it had been of Loki to piss each and every one of the Avengers off and what for a stupid, stupid thing it had been for Loki to actually do that on purpose.

Sure, Loki’s love of drama, of baiting his enemies until they snapped was undeniable….but the Trickster didn’t do stupid.

So why the baiting and the angry-making?

Clint’s got an idea or two about that.

Mostly, Hawkeye works as a solo ops, with no more than a handler for back-up. But he’s been part of several teams in his time, teams freshly put together and he knows how team-building goes.

Teams usually go through a forming phase, where the team is called together, a storming phase that can have team-members at each other’s throats, and a bit of norming, where common goals are defined.

It’s only after going through these phases that team-members have the kind of strong bond and unified vision that is necessary to perform at a high level.

There’s a way though to shorten those phases and any kind of military operation makes ample use of that: a common enemy.

And Loki had played the part of common enemy to perfection.

Going by what Thor had told them about his little brother, this didn’t fit Loki’s usual modus operandi.

Guy was a good at setting people at each other’s throats with a poisonous word here and an ugly insinuation there.

And for sure, Loki had set them at each other’s throats in just that fashion…but it hadn’t stuck.

In fact, it had ended up clearing the air between them, the stated goal of any storming phase.

According to Thor, there were people in Asgard that hadn’t talked to each other in over four hundred years because of the Trickster’s games.

Kinda hard to believe that Loki’s clever goading had backfired so badly with the Avengers, when it hadn’t with others.

Hell, without Loki pushing them, being a constant thorn in their side, the constant bickering that had blocked them from day one would have probably torn them apart all by itself.

Then there’d been Selvig.

Why had Selvig been able to maintain enough control over himself to build in a safety into the Tesseract-fuelled gate, a safety that would close the gate?

Clint hadn’t been able to do so much as twitch if Loki hadn’t wanted him too, and he certainly hadn’t been able to keep any secrets at all, with Loki sensing it instantly any time he tried to hide anything from the Trickster.

One more.

Shooting at Fury’s helicopter, Loki had missed. Badly.

And he’s seen Loki shoot with that sceptre of his while they were out recruiting together and the guy was a pretty o.k. shot with it.

Certainly not someone who would miss the cabin of a helicopter that was hovering right in front of them, especially since they had been moving towards the target.

Later on, when he and Nat’ had flown their jet right up to Stark Tower, there’d been a mere 46 feet between them and the Asgardians, and yet, when Loki had fired at them, he hadn’t aimed at the cabin, which would have had a good chance of killing them….no, he’d aimed for and hit the left wing, something that brought them down and took them away from the fight…but left them alive to kill another day.

So….if the pattern held true, then the most logical conclusion was this:

Loki had deliberately set the Chitauri invasion up to fail.

He hadn’t planned on winning.

He’d planned on losing.

Why?

Probably to get rid of the Chitauri.

And he’d set up the Avengers to do his dirty work for him.

But what came after?

What was Loki’s next step?

Because there HAD to be a next step.

The resources Loki had gathered with the help of his second-in-command had disappeared without a trace.

It had been dismissed as those who had been recruited into the Norse God’s army deserting their posts when they’d seen their leader fall.

The unbelievably organized way it had happened and the thoroughness with which it had been done, and by all of the 18 cells they’d created, had simply been disregarded as a freakish coincidence.

But there was another explanation now: Loki had ordered his troops to move well in advance.

There’d been enough men mind-controlled by Loki to execute such a move, all the while protecting their new overlords’ interests.

Come to think of it: as far as he knew, none of the other mind-controlled minions, save Selvig, had been accounted for so far.

Not Rosenbaum, the other Agent who’d been compromised when Loki arrived.

Not the hacker who had been Agent Barton’s personal assistant.

None of them.

So…..Loki had ordered them to move to new hiding places where SHIELD couldn’t find them and where they could continue their work.

Why?

Because without doubt, one thing had been for real: Loki’s desire to RULE.

And the God of Lies would need troops when he came back.

 


	6. Fallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes a lot more sense if you've seen the Thor movie. ^_~  
> For those who haven't, I hope that it'll still be comprehensible.

**_Two years ago._ **

The Bifröst is collapsing in on itself and he is falling with it.

Swirls of multi-coloured energy are whirling and twisting, tearing, merging, throwing him wildy around until he loses all sense of direction.

There will be patches of exploding light which shake him like a ragdoll and send him off shooting into space, there will be holes of nothingness where he is almost swallowed by the darkness, only to be picked up once more by stray shoots of rainbow.

The Bifröst is breaking, shattering, dissolving and once the last vestiges of energy have disappeared into oblivion, he will be left in the neverending void between the stars.

Will be left to die.

He welcomes it.

It is a fitting end for someone whose whole life has been nothing but an empty lie.

Everything he ever believed in, fought for....would have laid his life down to protect....it was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

All his dreams, his hopes....they were never real to begin with.

For the last few days, he has so desperately tried to hold on, has tried to find a way to hold on to the only life he knew, despite his whole world crumbling around him...has done things that make his insides churn if he dwells on them too long….all for the sake of having a chance....and it was all for naught.

He was doomed to fail from the start.

Odin should have left him to die when he found him as a babe, abandoned in that temple on Jotunheim.

It would have been more merciful.

The only thing he has left is death, to put him out of his misery, to end the crushing ache that has taken the place of his heart, leaving him shattered, the fragments of his self piercing and cutting him from the inside out, like fragments of broken bone lacerating the flesh and skin surrounding them.

He is bleeding to death inside, mortally wounded by the loss of his heart, his family, his past and his future.

He'd thought Odin's love real...Frigga's....Thor's....

It was the only thing that made it bearabel to live at a court where he was always the odd one out.

Always on the outside, looking in.

Trying so hard to be worthy, and eternally failing.

But it he’d never stood a chance, had he?

It had all been a sham.

He'd NEVER BEEN beloved, either as a son or a brother.

All he'd been was a convenient political game piece.

He'd never truly been Asgardian.

They’d hidden it behind pretty lies….but in truth, he'd been Jotun. Hated enemy.

How they must have laughed behind his back.

In retrospect, his desperate scramble to prove his worth, his loyalty, once he’d discovered his true parentage…it must have seemed droll in its’ facetious futility.

He had killed his own father-by-blood to prove his dedication.

To make testament of his devotion to the realm of Asgard.

….Only to be shunned by those he had thought to please.

Oh….how they must be laughing now.

In one fell swoop, they had gotten rid of an age-old enemy…and of the changeling they’d never wanted.

All without dirtying their own hands.

He should hate them for it.

Given time, he probably would.

But here and now, all he wants is for the pain to stop.

For life to stop.

To die.

 


	7. Cracked

Asgard is still blinking in the distance, a beacon of hope to all its‘ children and a funeral pyre to all he held dear.

At some point, he can’t bear the sight anymore and closes his eyes, and all that’s left is the cosmic wind howling in his ears as it rushes past.

If he’d cared, cared at all, he would have noticed the tone of the wind’s song changing.

Would have felt the weightlessness of the void between the stars exchanged for the unforgiving pull of gravity.

But he doesn’t care, is beyond caring, and so the cruel impact on the snowy slopes of a vast mountain-range comes as a bad shock.

The only reason why he survives, is because the snow, almost a mile deep, a lot of it freshly fallen and fluffy, cushions his fall.

Despite this, the impact pretty much breaks every bone in his body and leaves him bleeding at the bottom of an icy crater.

It takes him more than a week to heal.

For most of it, the pain in his body overpowers the pain in his heart, leaving his mind blissfully blank.

When he fully comes to, the snow and the frost have turned his skin the dusky blue of imminent nightfall and the raised patterns that proclaim him Jotun adorn his skin.

For all that he’s grown up hating the Frost Giants, the enemies of Asgard….

….for all that he tried to annihilate Jotunheim, hoping to gain Odin’s respect and recognition…

….for all that, finding himself changed into his Jotun form is almost a relief.

He certainly has never hated any Jotun, not even Laufey, as much as he hates what has become of Loki Odinson.

NOT being Loki Odinson….and more something else….something new?

……Having almost died, he finds he doesn’t really want to give it another try.

But he doesn’t want to live anymore as Loki Odinson either.

Having a new skin…a different skin.

For now, it makes things…..bearable.

Healing takes energy and so, when he’s finally able to move a bit again, hunger is gnawing at his innards like a bilgesnipe would gnaw at a cow’s thighbone.

At the break of day, the weak sunlight suffusing the landscape with a twilight glow, he gathers about him what scraps of his garments remain and sets out into the valleys below, moving with the slow deliberation of a tottering dotard.

He has no idea what kind of sustenance the frost-bidden terrain of Jotunheim might offer, but he’s hoping for some roots….or maybe a stream, with fish natant below the frozen surface of the water.

After a few hours, he comes across rabbit-like tracks and it does not take long until he can hunt down the furry creature that made them. A tiny bit of magic, the practice of which leaves him drained and winded, secures his prey.

So ravenous and thirsting that his hands are shaking with it, he slits the creature’s throat and drinks its’ blood, taking care not to spill a single drop.

It is astonishingly hot and sweet.

He catches and eats two more, then his luck runs out and the forest he has entered remains dead and silent.

Blood and flesh of the creatures is enough sustenance to keep him staggering along…but not enough to take the edge of the hunger tearing apart his insides.

As time passes, the shadows deepen. Usually, his night-vision is excellent. Always had been. Better than that of Thor or any other Asgardian he knew. In retrospect, he realizes bitterly that it must have been due to his Jotun heritage.

Right now though, his vision is blurred by fatigue, as if he were looking up from the bottom of the sea, and if doesn’t want to stumble and fall over roots and stones in the darkness, he should stop somewhere.

Letting his gaze wander through the dense foliage, in the search of some place that might offer a bit of shelter for the night, he realizes with startlement that he can see a light, a tiny golden glow, through the trees, a little to his right.

He heads towards it.

After an hour or so, he finds himself at the edge of a clearing. There’s a barn and a farmhouse sitting in the middle of it, light shining from a crooked window in the upper story of the house.

It must have been a nice little steading, once, long ago, the proportions generous and the design pleasing to the eye. Now, the windows on the lower floor are boarded up and what was intricate, brightly coloured scrollwork along the windows, the door, the porch and the eaves is cracked and splintered, the paint peeling and faded.

From the barn, he can hear the baaing of goats.

He’s not in the mood for talking, least of all to Jotuns, and even less willing to ask for help.

He belongs nowhere, is no man’s kith or kin anymore, and as such, he owes no man nothing.

But he does know how to milk a goat and it should be easy enough to slip into the barn undetected and sate himself on fresh warm milk. It won’t take long.

Maybe, if there’s a kid goat, he’ll take it with him when he leaves, so he’ll have something to keep him fed the next day.

The barn is dark and warm and the goats, well gorged on some of the sweet smelling moss that is stacked up in bales at the back of the barn, don’t protest when he starts milking them, making use of a bucket he found beside the door.

When he was small, there were nights where he was plagued by nightmares and woke up shivering and crying. On such nights, Frigga would come to him, bearing a cup of warm goat’s milk, sweetened with summer honey, and she would sit by him, holding his hand and stroking his brow until he fell into a dreamless slumber.

The memory comes to him with the taste of goats’ milk, and what should have been a much welcome sustenance curdles in his mouth, leaving behind a sour taste that makes his throat go tight as if someone were choking him.

But he is in dire need of nourishment, and so he drinks it all up.

After this, he should be going….but the warm comfort of the soft bales of moss beckons him, to rest but a moment. Just a few breaths to close his eyes and gather himself, before he heads back out into the dark.

What wakes him, the morning sun falling in through an upper window and dappling the floor with pale spots of light, is the door of the barn creaking as it is being opened.

A girl slips in, a jotun, her skin a greenish blue, not the dark grey-blue of the frostgiants he’s met so far. Black hair hanging down her back in a thick braid.  Leather skirt and vest, embroidered with a knotted pattern in dark green.

There’s barely enough time to rise up to a sitting position, never mind the time to hide, and so they end up staring at each other and he curses inwardly as he sees her eyes, red as his own, go wide.

For a moment, he contemplates tackling her, but she stands a full head taller than he is, and as he tries to move, he notices that his ordeal has left him weaker by far than he would have guessed and overtaxing himself the day before has not helped matters.

With nary a dagger to defend himself and too feeble to run, he will have to come up with another way to get out of this precarious situation.

Well, he does look Jotun, and with a bit of luck, he might be able to talk his way out of this.

The girl stands frozen in place, her mouth gaping like a fish, and, damn his bad luck, of course she hasn’t moved much and is still blocking the door.

He starts to make some soothing noises.

In his current condition, it would be unwise to provoke a fight and maybe he can even sweet-talk her into assisting him? Bugger, he’d even settle for her just letting him go without a fuss and without calling anybody else.

And then the girl drops into a deep courtesy, head bowed and whispers "My Lord" and it is his turn to gape at her, mouth open wide enough to serve as a trap for flies, if there were any flies around.

"Meara?" A male voice from outside.

Loki has just enough time to gather his rags around him in a more dignified fashion and then the door is pushed wide open and a second Jotun enters, a head taller than even the girl, same greenish-blue skin, short black hair shot with grey and his hips girded in no more than a loincloth and a wide belt that holds a satchel and a long knife.

His eyes sweep over the scene before him and he too stills for a heartbeat. His eyes widen just as his...daughters?...had and, his eyes fixed on the ragged figure sitting on his bales of dried moss, he bows.

They bow to him.

His heart is racing so fast, it seems to try and beat its' way out of his chest.

It must be because somehow they know.

Know that for a Jotun, he is of royal descent.

Laufey 's son.

Their king’s son.

How?

What has given him away?

And do they know that he killed their king? That he tried to destroy their world and kill them all?

They must not find out.

Being recognized as the king's son...no more than a month ago, when he was still Loki Odinson, he would have ruthlessly used the privileges that such rank conveyed to better his situation and cheat these dull brutes out of as much as he could.

But the way he suddenly has trouble breathing makes it clear that he has NO desire whatsoever to be recognized as royalty by such base creatures as Frost Giants.

The male rights himself and touches the girls’ shoulder.

"Meara. You must run to Eistla and bring her here. Quick!" The girl jumps up and before Loki can utter an objection, she is gone.

Turning back to his unexpected guest, the giant bows once more, curtly and the only thing that keeps Loki from trying to bolt is the fact that he knows that weakened as he is, he doesn't stand a chance of getting away.

Whatever they plan to do to him, it is too late to do something about it now, and he'd rather suffer his fate in dignity, rather than finding himself chased and caught like a headless chicken.

Only a little over a week ago, he wished for death. He doesn’t anymore, but there’s a hollow, barren space where his heart used to be and he finds that, apart from wishing to be left alone, he does not care much about anything.

But he has been discovered and even if he runs now, it will not keep people from hunting him down.

And whatever these creatures will do to him now, does it really make a difference?

The Jotun standing in the doorway clears his throat.

"I am Tjalar and this humble steading is what remains of my lands. It is little enough, but you look weary, lord, and I would offer you a hearty breakfast and a soft bed to rest yourself."

The man's face is calm as he speaks, with maybe the hint of a friendly little smile lurking at the corners.

Loki should not find himself greeted with smiles of affable welcome by those who should, by right, still be his mortal enemies, and the sight of that kindly welcome fills him with the ardent desire to ram a spear through the blue-skinned monster's heart.

But he doesn't have a spear, wouldn't have the strength to lift it if he did, there are others who would come after him if he killed the man...

….and isn't he one of the monster's too?

His stomach chooses that very moment to cramp painfully with hunger. A cutting, self-depreciating sneer flits across his face. If he can’t run and has neither the courage nor the will to end himself….why not breakfast?

So as the man turns and beckons, he trudges after him, only to find himself seated in a comfy little kitchen where a pot of porridge is heating over the hearth’s fire and Tjalar busies himself with serving him the breakfast he promised. Sharp cheese, coarse bread, pickled fish and a large cup of honeyed tea.

It is cheap peasant fare, in no way comparable to the costly delicacies served at the court of Asgard, but somehow, it tastes better; so even though recent developments have left him with no appetite at all, he finds himself nibbling at bread and cheese, even taking a bite of the fish and drinking down the cup of tea.

Tjalar busies himself with household tasks, hardly looking at his guest at all.

How different from an Aesir. Had this been an Asgardian household, Loki would have found himself badgered with questions, some polite, some less so. And if he hadn't answered to people's satisfaction, it wouldn't have taken long for people to start whispering behind his back.

Tjalar just does the dishes and fills up his cup when he runs out of tea.

It is....peaceful.

The door, to the left of where he's sitting, opens and Meara slips in. Behind her follows another Giantess, her skin a dark midnight blue, her grey hair done up in a simple knot at the nape of neck and her body clothed in a vest of white fur and a long skirt of doeskin leather. The deep lines around her eyes speak of age and grief.

She stops abruptly in her tracks as she catches sight of him and covers her mouth, but it is not enough to hush her sudden, sharp intake of breath.

If she had seen a wraith, she could not have looked more stunned.

Within a breath, her eyes brim with tears which flow unchecked down her cheeks.

His hair stands on end and the precipitous pressure on his chest couldn't be greater if he'd taken a full hit from a giant's axe.

He knows this woman.

He does not know from whence or where, not her name nor her circumstance...but he knows her.

He, who used to be so slick with words, suddenly has trouble finding his tongue, and when he does, his voice is no more than a croaked whisper.

"Lady.....Lady, why do you cry?"

Her hands fall to her side and her lips stretch in a tremulous twist that makes it impossible to tell whether she is laughing or crying.

When she speaks, her voice is shaking.

"Because, child, you look so much like your mother did. You have her eyes." And she wipes at her face with the back of her hand.

For a moment, his heart stills and he must struggle for breath, as all air seems to have deserted him.

"My….my mo-mother?"

He’s stumbles over his words, his tongue tripping over the syllables like his feet would have been tripped up by the ground suddenly breaking open and shifting beneath them. And for once, he does not care whether this makes him look like a fool or not.

The Giantess nods, eyes sad and grim.

"Farbauti, daughter of King Ymir.  Courted by Laufey. Married by Laufey.....and slain by Laufey."

“I….”

The first thing he wants to say is “I have a mother?”, but that would be the most inane question he has ever uttered in his life.

Of course he had a mother.

Only…..he never gave it any thought.

For him, his mother has always been Frigga, and even as he learned that Laufey had spawned him, he hadn’t remembered to consider the fact that there had to have been another involved. A woman who carried him under her heart for 18 months, who gave birth to him, suckled him.

And for all that the Aesir know true and well who their enemies are….no one had ever mentioned Laufey having had a wife.

The second thing he wants to say is “Laufey slew my mother?” and he can’t help but think of Frigga.

Frigga who is NOT his mother, but who read him bed-time stories and rocked him to sleep when he was small.

Frigga who dried his tears and introduced him to the library, when the other children had laughed at him, because he had been the only one who had tripped over backwards when the armsmaster had shown them a new blow, an overhead strike, and the weight of the sword had been more than he could safely balance.

Frigga, who patted Thor on the cheek when he told of his adventures and said “Well done, son” and then, after Thor had run off to find new games to play and new foes to vanquish, retired to her solar, him in tow, to badger him about every detail of his cunning exploits over a cup of tea, eyes wide with excitement when he described the details of how his shrewd schemes had played out and laughing delightedly as he told her of his clever pranks.

Here and now, he does not want to ask questions he knows are stupid, and he doesn’t want to think of Frigga anymore, and so he swallows down the salty taste that now suffuses his mouth and stays silent.

There’s a forlorn smile curving the lips of the Jotun woman.

“You look dazed child. I take you did not learn of this before?”

All he can do is nod, mutely.

She sits down opposite to him. Tjalar sets a cup down before her and she pours herself tea.

Meara, who, until now had stood by the door, quietly picks up a bucket standing by the sink and leaves, muttering something about the goats needing milking. She pats the woman’s….Eistla’s…hand as she passes her by.

Eistla stares at her cup, as if it held the answer to some life-or-death riddle at its’ bottom, then her gaze shifts to him.

“Once, long, long ago, the Jotun were ruled by a king good and wise, Ymir. There was peace and prosperity…and much time for wondrous exploits and merrymaking. Where Ymir was, his friends, Freya, Heimdall, Odin….they could often be found there too….and oh, the adventures they had.”

Raising the cup to her lips, she takes a sip and grimaces.

It is good that neither she nor Tjalar seem to pay notice, because his whole body is shaking like an aspen tree at her words.

Odin.

FRIEND to the king of Jotunheim.

FRIEND to the jotun who had ruled before Laufey.

FRIEND to the man who must have been the grandfather of Laufey’s son.

….and…..as such…..someone who….might….

…who might have seen Laufey’s son as more than just a political game piece.

The memory crashes over him, making his head spin like a boat caught in a maelstrom at the edge of the world.

 

“Why do you twist my words?” Odin had cried before he collapsed, overtaken by the Odinsleep.

 

Heart beating like a war-drum he can’t help but wonder.

Had he done that? Twisted Odin’s words?

Deafened himself to Odin’s entreaty, scared out of his wits that the only things he would be told were more lies?

Afraid that Odin would attempt to weave a web of deceitful words to placate him, so that he might still be useful as an instrument of Odin’s scheming?

Afraid that if Odin lied to him once more, he would let himself be wooed by these deceits, would have settled for a hollow and deluded fantasy, because it was less painful than being discarded like a broken tool?

Eistla sets her cup down, the clacking sound as she places it on the table bringing his attention back to the matters at hand.

She looks past him, her eyes seemingly focused on something far away…or long past.

“Ymir had but one child, Farbauti, the apple of his eye. When Farbauti came of age, many men courted her, but only one managed to win her heart. A young Jotun of only moderately noble descent, but overwhelming ambition. Laufey.”

Her lips curl in a derisive snarl.

“At first all was well….but then Ymir fell ill. It was a strange illness, no one could discern either cause nor cure, and less than half a moon’s turn later, Ymir lay dead.”

She turns to Tjalar, who, without ado, had sat down at the table while she talked and had begun peeling roots.

“Say, Tjal….you wouldn’t have anything stronger than tea?”

Tjalar nods and gets a bottle and three glasses from one of the cupboards. He plunks one down in front of each of them and then pours a generous dollop of sharp-smelling alcohol into each glass.

Eistla takes a deep draught of hers and continues.

“Laufey, being married to the dead king’s daughter, ascended to the throne and at first, all seemed well. His rule especially appealed to a lot of young warriors at his court, for he set much store by their strength and prowess, never ceasing to praise them as the most fearsome warriors of all. Then things started to go bad. It started small.

Warriors were given special privileges they had not enjoyed before.

Mocking a warrior, even in a kindly way, became something you just didn’t do anymore, for you were bound to be chastised for it by others.

Then a friendly contest with the warriors of Vanaheim and Asgard…turned less than friendly.

A visit to Midgard, where a small disagreement escalated into a fight that left people dead….and the warriors of Jotunheim returned from it with riches, ostensibly claimed as blood-price for injustice suffered.

Bit by bit, the good relationship the Kingdom of Jotunheim had entertained with the other realms began to deteriorate to the point where there were no more friendly exchanges and barely even trade.

Our furs and leathers, soft and supple as they were, were no longer in demand in the halls of Asgard or Alfheim…or anywhere else for that matter.

There were no more fishing boats for us, crafted in the fjords of Vanaheim.

No more eternal lights, spun in the halls of Muspelheim.

And our people suffered for it and grew restless.”

Eistla lifts her cup and drinks it down. Tjalar refills it, then returns to peeling his roots. He does not look at either of them, but now there’s a tension in his shoulders that betrays long-seated anger.

Loki had hated Laufey from the first time he heard of him…but it had been the un-ripened hatred of a callow youth who followed the example of his elders.

When he encountered Laufey for the first time, trading poisoned verbal barbs with Thor, that hatred matured into something sharper, deeper.

Now, the back of his neck is prickling. He knows his history. He knows where this is headed.

And he finds his hands clench and unclench as he unexpectedly wishes for the ability to change the past, to go back in time and slay his blood-father long before his machinations plunged the realms into an era of war and bloodshed.

Going by the look that Eistla and Tjalar trade, their thoughts follow similarly grim and vengeful paths.

Eistla mutters a quiet curse.

“There was worse to come. For the realm….and for Farbauti.

There were rumours…rumours of Laufey hiding a leman, of being unfaithful to his wife.

Farbauti, young and in love, yet still shaken by the death of her father, mentioned the hurtful gossip to her husband, hoping he would put an end to people’s talk.

Instead…..instead he hit her, bruising her eye and splitting her lip, accusing her of lack of loyalty for even mentioning such slander in his presence.

And then, Laufey brought his doxy to court, and she pregnant; he claiming with words that he knew her not, not beyond her being one of his humble subjects…and proving otherwise in the lavish attention he paid her.

Wounded and shamed, your mother withdrew to her chambers, shutting herself off from the court, from her people….from her friends.

She would see no one, talk to no one.  Hardly ate or drank.

And thus, she did not learn of Laufey’s plans until it was too late.

Did not learn that he had placated the growing discontent among his people by promising them riches untold, fertile lands to graze their flock, wide mountain-ranges where to build their steadings.

He had promised them Midgard.

Laufey gathered an army and set out with the intent to subjugate the middle realm, either killing or enslaving the mortals.

But Odin Allfather learned of Laufey’s plans….and intervened.

A full-out war was not something that would pass by Farbauti un-noticed, even as Laufey had hidden his wartime preparations from her and even as withdrawn as she was.

She was her father’s true daughter.

She shared his vision of wishing for peace and harmony amongst the realms.

Enraged that Laufey had not only betrayed her, but also her father’s legacy with which he had been entrusted, she ended her self-chosen isolation, ready to confront her husband once he returned from the front.”

Eistla looks up and she locks eyes with the young Jotun, who so unexpectedly had ended up sitting at Tjalar’s kitchen table.

She notes the helpless fury now burning in his eyes….a fury that mirrors the one burning in her own heart, even after all these years.

“To the shock of all, when she emerged from her chambers, it became clear that Laufey had seeded her before leaving, as her belly was rounded with child. She had not only hidden herself away in her misery…but her pregnancy too.

People found renewed faith when they saw.

An heir to the throne.

Someone who was of Ymir’s blood.

Someone who would help our people return to the old ways and mend the bonds that Laufey had broken.

Hope.”

She watches the young man flinch and look aside.

This was not a burden he had expected to bear….and with the way things have gone so very wrong lately, she does not blame him.

Inwardly, she sighs.

Odin should have told him, but the old goat had stubbornly insisted that things would go more smoothly this way.

She would gloat that for once, she was right and the Allfather was wrong…but seeing pain and confusion chase each other across the younglings’ features, she finds that she only wishes that the child did not have to bear the brunt of the errors of his family.

Her cup is empty again and she flashes Tjalar a grateful smile as he refills it yet once again.

Without the numbness brought on by hard liquor, this would be hardly bearable for her.

How much more difficult must it be for the boy, who hasn’t even touched his cup since they began, and who has nothing to cushion him from these hard truths?

But then, he has to know, he has the right….and with the blood that gives him claim to Jotunheim’s throne also comes the duty to his people. If in the end, he chooses to take up the crown, then he must do so fully aware of what this entails…and at what price it was bought.

Throat burning, whether from Tjalar’s gut-rot homebrew or from the truth she is about to utter, she cannot tell, she goes on.

“It was not to be.

Laufey returned.

Farbauti challenged him.

He beat her bloody, uncaring for the fact that she was heavy with his child, and he left her lying on the floor of the great hall.

There, her labour started much too early by the beating, she gave birth to a baby boy.

You.”

The youngling’s hands, balled into fists on the table, tremble so hard the earthware on the table rattles, and he is hunched over, as if trying to weather a heavy storm. She reaches out and pats his hand.

He speaks, and it is barely a whisper, voice broken, cracked.

“And then?”

“And then, hearing that his son had been born, Laufey returned.

He did not wish for Ymir’s grand-child to grace the throne after him, much favouring the bastards his doxy had given him just a few weeks earlier.

He did not like the thought either, of Ymir’s daughter and grandson serving as a rallying point for those amongst the Jotun who opposed him, and at that time, their numbers were steadily growing.

And so he slew Farbauti with his own hand, slitting her throat and letting her bleed out on the floor in front of the throne that had been her fathers’.

Afterwards, he had the child removed to the temple, so it should starve to death, claiming that, in holding with ancient and almost-forgotten tradition, a child so small and delicate should be left to die.”

The young man’s gaze rests upon her, intense, burning, and she feels as if she was watching a dragon emerge from his cave and spread his wings, ready to take flight.

He speaks up, his voice harsh like the howling wind that tears through the deepest chasms high up in the mountains, and finishes the tale:

“But Odin and his troops, after having defeated the jotun army on Midgard and after having taken the Casket of Ancient winters, had followed Laufey.

They came to drive the Jotuns to their knees, so they would not wage war on the other realms ever again.

And Laufey was defeated.

And Odin entered the temple….found the child….and took it with him to raise as his own.”

She nodded, a short jerk of the head that locked all that had been said into place.

“Yes.

Odin defeated Laufey.

Odin took the Casket of Ancient Winters.

Odin took the child, for the love of his best friend, his blood-brother sworn.

And Odin took one more thing.”

The boy frowned, puzzled.

“What?”

“The Tesseract.”

 


	8. Calmed

There's a towering old oak beside the little river that runs through the forest, its’ branches long and gnarled and broad enough to lie on.

His favourite one reaches almost halfway across the water and he enjoys lying belly-down on it, watching the ice-floes drift along in the deep turquoise waters.

Observing the patterns the drifting ice makes as it floats by has an almost meditative effect on him and it certainly helps him as he concentrates and reaches out with his mind for the Tesseract.

The first time he tried to touch it, it took him almost thirteen hours. Since then, he's practiced a lot and these days, he can touch the crackling energy and the oddly intelligent presence that form the Tesseract within a few breaths.

Today, she’s more “awake” than usual, sparking a myriad of new ideas and concepts in his head as the “touches” her, which is interesting. Like a buyer at the stall of a jewellery-seller, he looks over what she’s showing him, trying to pick one or two things to explore more in depth.

The “pictures” he’s looking at are starting to shift, some of them shoved to the forefront while others recede into the background and his pulse quickens. She’s “selecting” things she wants him to examine more closely….and she’s never done that before.

With a half-groan, he realizes that it’ll take him hours to sort through the most tantalizing bits…and Tjalar promised to take him deer-hunting this evening.

The prospect of roast venison made his mouth water even now and he’d been really looking forward to the thrill of the hunt that came before.

But if he stays here, trying to figure out what the Tesseract means to show him, he will be late and Tjalar will leave without him.

Of course, figuring out the Tesseract would be easier and faster, if he had someone to teach him how to interact with it….but his granther didn’t leave instructions, and after him, the only remaining person who could and knew how to use the cube was his granther’s blood-brother.

Well, he’ll be damned before he’d ask old One-Eye. At best, the crafty old prick would only try to meddle, at worst he’d keep pushing until everything was resolved to his own satisfaction…and Loki’s sick and tired of being a game-piece in other people’s plots.

Besides, he’s making good progress all on his own. Thor would be utterly stumped with a task such as this, but then Thor’s a warrior and not a sorcerer. Thor might have brawn and fighting skill, but arcane knowledge and superior intellect?

Not so much.

It never seemed to make a difference before.

“Some do battle, others just do tricks.” Thor had said to him, just before the aborted coronation ceremony…

….and the servant standing by had snickered.  

As people always did.

The servant he had scared with an illusion of slithering poisonous snakes, laughing quietly as the man screamed like a little girl and staggered backwards, dropping his tray and the goblet on it.

That scream had been sweet indeed.

And oh, how he’d wished at that moment for the ability to make Thor scream like that.

He’d had his fill of Thor’s little jibes.

A thousand little nibbles, like moths feeding on soft wool packed away from sight during summer.

….

_((The creature rears and its' scream shakes the very ground they're standing upon. His insides liquefy with fear as he realizes that his brother is down, lying on the ground, coughing up blood and that when the monster strikes, it will rend Thor apart._

_He doesn't have time for the usual patient, intricate preparations. Spells take TIME, time he doesn't have, and so he just yanks at the core where his power resides, feeling something rip, and flings his magic at the monster's eyes; the creature's pained shriek telling him that he succeeded._

_He tastes blood and can feel a warm little rivulet running from his nose as the piercing agony of a reaction-headache settles behind his eyes. The last thing he sees, as his sight greys at the edges and grows dark, is his brother flashing him a thankful smile as Thor rolls away from the monster, well out of reach of the thrashing head, and lifts his hammer to strike.))_

_“…and then the bilgesnipe struck, but I danced aside and_ _bashed in_ _its'_ _head!”_

_“….but it would have gotten you if I hadn’t blinded it with my spells.”_

_“Nonsense! It was the lightning quickness of my jump that carried me out of the monster’s range!”_

_Thor smiles at the pretty girl that had been flirting with Loki just moments before, and she giggles, smiling coyly at the golden haired warrior before her, his darker haired sibling all but forgotten._

_An easy smile on his face and a frustrated snarl stuck in his throat, Loki excuses himself. If he wants pleasant company tonight, he’ll have to look elsewhere. Again._

_Well, tomorrow morn’ he will be the one laughing. Bed-fleas make for itchy company and he’ll enjoy watching Thor and that faithless trollop squirming and wiggling as they try not the scratch themselves in delicate places in view of the full court during breakfast._

….

_((Thor's eyes are bleak as he surveys the huge grey walls bristling with spears and well-manned with archers. There are even a few vats of oils bubbling at the top, the acrid smoke of the too hot liquid burning in their noses._

_"We'll never get in there in time to stop the ritual." Thor whispers under his breath, voice rough with dread._

_Loki narrows his eyes and tries to gauge the distance to the nearest tower. He guesses he can teleport into the tower by the main gate, where the opening mechanism is housed….but there are bound to be guards inside, and he will be all alone._

_But Thor’s right._

_If they don’t get in there NOW, the ritual will be completed, the young princess will be cursed to die and without her, her lands will be helpless against the onslaught of the armies of darkness that have gathered in the fortress before them._

_“Thor? Get your troops to the gate.” And Loki flings himself through space and time, into the tower by the main gate._

_A broken shoulder and an arrow in the thigh later, the gates swing open and the roar of his brother, as Thor and his friends rush in, is the sweetest music imaginable. Loki’s wounds take time to heal, but he joins the battle nevertheless, secure in the knowledge that while he’s still recovering, Thor will have his back.))_

_“…and then the gate broke down under the blows of Mjölnir and we surged into the fort, laying into those scoundrels like a pack of rat-hounds would tear apart a nest of mice.”_

_“…but as I recall, it was I who snuck in and opened the gates for you.”_

_“Don’t be silly, Loki! It was the might of my hammer alone that got us in. I know you were trying to help, little brother…and I’m sure you can somehow make yourself useful next time.”_

_The band of warriors whose fire they had joined after the battle for a horn of mead and a bowl of soup after the battle roar with laughter and the one sitting beside Thor slaps his prince on the back in the way of easy camaraderie that is so common amongst fellow fighters._

_Another warrior re-fills Thor’s half-empty horn and, after having taken a deep draught of the honey-wine, Thor launches into another re-counting of his exploits. Loki’s horn has been empty for quite some time now and no one has offered to refill it._

_With a bright flash of light and a clap of thunder, he teleports himself to the heart of a small thicket of trees a few lengths away. The surprised outcry and the curses behind him offer little balm for his aching heart._

_At least the sight of their pain-filled faces will provide some amusement come morning, when they discover that the hang-over they suffer is hugely out of proportion with the mead they consumed….and that dying gloriously in battle might have been preferable to the skull-splitting headaches and the gut-purging nausea that plagues them then._

…

_((It had been a good plan. Very risky. But good. It would have secured their victory within a few short hours._

_Granted, so would a slower, more careful campaign have done too. But none of them was fond of huddling out here, beset by sleet and howling storms, for months._

_Besides, they might call him “Silvertongue”, but when he chose to be, Thor could be quite skilled at persuasion too; and as his elder brother had quite succinctly pointed out, Loki had better things to do than come up with ways to keep them all from developing foot-rot while they chugged through marshes that left them covered hip-deep in mud._

_Unfortunately, as with any risky plan, things had gone awry and at present they were cornered in a narrow valley, a hundred enemy warriors between them and the exit._

_Sif had been trying to get Thor’s attention for a few minutes now, but the stupid oaf just mumbled to himself and surveyed the high surrounding rocky walls, eyes wild and shifting._

_Well. He’s never tried veiling so many people in smoke before, and he’s willing to bet that he’ll feel like dog turds afterwards…but desperate times call for unconventional solutions….and Thor will survive having had to run from an enemy for once in his life.))_

_“…fought my way through a hundred warriors and pulled us out alive!_

_“As I recall, I was the one who veiled us in smoke to ease our escape.”_

_“Ah yes….some do battle, others just do tricks.”_

_The servant snickers._

….

A thousand little bites, like moths feeding on soft wool packed away from sight during summer….leaving nothing but rags and tatters.

Just once, he’d have wanted Thor to praise him in front of others.

Just once to have his elder brother acknowledge that it had been Loki’s clever use of his sorcerous craft that had led to victory.

But no matter how long he waited….no matter how often he tried….it never came.

He’d learned to settle for screams and curses.

And now….

There’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that he inherited an artefact which, in its’ own way, is more powerful than Thor’s Hammer.

There’s quite a bit of gleeful smugness too, in knowing that Thor would never ever have been to figure the Tesseract out, even if it had been his.

Heh….never mind Thor.

In the whole realm of Asgard, there is no one, save maybe the old meddler, who is his equal where it comes to sorcery.

He will do this.

He will gain the Tesseract’s power for himself and spite them all.

Once Eistla told him about the Tesseract, what it was and how his very blood connected him to that particular part of his heritage, finding a link to the artefact was…not exactly easy…but certainly no more difficult than locating an hitherto unknown birthmark at the back of his shoulder.

Touching it required a lot of mental twisting and some sophisticated contortions of the mind…but once he’d found it, he was forthwith always aware that it was there, that it was a part of who and what he was.

The first time he had explored his link to the Tesseract, he hadn’t known what to expect. An energy source? A bespelled item, filled with qualities set to a specific purpose, like the Casket of Ancient Winters?

Discovering that the Tesseract was….aware…and as such unlike any other object of that kind that he’d previously encountered had come as a bit of surprise.

Communication with the cube comes in the form of mental images and metaphysical concepts and so far, he’s been unable to determine just how intelligent the object is.

It might be that the Tesseract is no smarter than an enthusiastic puppy, fetching the secrets it is privy to for his master like a dog would fetch a thrown stick.

It might be that, compared to the Tesseract, he’s the simple one, and the artefact is dumbing down what it wants him to know to a level where he can understand.

Either way, it’s the kind of clever puzzle that he’s always loved solving and it gives him something to distract him from the ugly, confusing muddle that his life has become, so he doesn’t think about it ALL the time.

The Tesseract still humming at the back of his mind, quietly, patiently waiting, he begins to pick at the bark of the branch that he’s lying on.

It’s thick, but his black fingernails are hard and sharp and after a while, the bark starts coming away.

He remembers when his nails were still a white so light, it was almost transparent, and the skin underneath a healthy pink…not blue.

As he looks at his hands, his skin….the snow-covered landscape around him that no longer has him freezing and shivering in this form……‘tis as if a heavy rock had taken the place of his heart…. keeping him pinned when he would rather run as fast as he could from his memories.

Sometimes …….sometimes even the Tesseract is not shiny enough a toy to keep his mind off recent events.

Can’t keep him from remembering…..from shredding himself to ribbons on the jagged edges of his memories.

…

_When he sees the two dead guards lying on the floor, shocked misery fills his gut, so bad he has to concentrate hard on not puking on the floor of the Odin’s treasury._

_They’d been some of the best trained warriors that Asgard had to offer and he’d never thought that Laufey’s brutes would be able to get past them, let alone kill them._

_And it’s all his fault._

_….._

_Thor’s laughing madly, even now refusing to acknowledge that they’re about to lose the battle….that they’re about to die._

_Volstagg screams at them to be beware of the Frost Giant’s touch and he can see the ugly black frost-burn that has spread over the man’s arm….but despite this, just a few breaths later, one of the Jotuns grabs Loki. Touches his skin._

_He waits for the pain, for the freezing, numbing cold to set in….but there is none._

_Instead, he watches his skin turn blue, his nails black and for the first time since they arrived here, he feels warm again._

_It steals all breath for him._

_Only Frost Giants have blue skin like that._

_Only Frost Giants have black nails like that._

_Only Frost Giants feel comfortably warm in the icy temperatures of Jotunheim._

_And Frost Giants are monsters._

_The ground seems to drop away beneath his feet, leaving him hanging and choking._

_How can it be that beneath his skin there’s another?_

_One that he shares with these vile creatures?_

_HOW?_

_Heart stuttering, he watches as his skin turns back, regains its’ rosy sheen…and, gut knotting, there’s just one thing he can think of: the others must not know._

……..

_He looks up at the stern face of his father and, as he knew it would be the case, he can tell that Odin does not approve of what he’s done._

_Voice breaking, tears streaming down his face, he tries to explain regardless._

_Tries to win what his heart tells him he has already lost._

_“I could have done it Father. I could have done it. For you. For all of us.”_

_His eyes search Odin’s face, search for a sign that will tell him he has his father’s understanding, his father’s support…..and for a moment, his world hangs in balance._

_Wild, desperate hope surges in his heart and in his mind, he can hear himself silently plead with his father, an endless litany of “….pleaseFatherpleaseIdidittopleaseyoupleaseyousaidI’myoursonpleaseIdiditforyou…”_

_And Odin, the only father he ever knew….._

_Odin tells him “No, Loki.”_

_And just like that, everything is taken away from him._

_Everthing  he ever knew, believed in, fought for, LOVED…..it is no longer a part of him._

_And he lets go._

_Lets himself fall from the broken ruins of the Bifröst, down into the yawning emptiness between the stars._

_And Loki Odinson ceases to exist._

….

Blood pounding in his ears, eyes blinded by unshed tears, he stares at the waters below.

The floating ice beneath begins to crack and splinter, the deafening noise of the shattering ice sending a flock of birds flying, who had been peacefully nesting in the trees nearby.

How could such softly uttered words pierce so sharply?

And how could the Allfather, who had professed him his beloved son, with that one word, belie all the effort his jotun foundling had put into EARNING the place that was no longer his by right?

A particularly large block of ice explodes violently, the fly-away shards hitting the surrounding trees with dull thuds.

Had not Loki had killed his own blood-father? Killed Laufey, and all without a single Asgardian having to fall in battle?

Had he not kept Thor from a throne that would have suited the rash numskull ill? And thus saved Asgard from suffering under an incompetent ruler, one who was not worthy of that title?

Would he not have wiped out the Jotun threat with the help of the Bifröst, again, without a single Asgardian being killed or maimed in the process?

He swallows bile.

Breathes in. Deeply. Out again.

The floating chunks of ice beneath slow down, until the noise of ice breaking is reduced to gentle clunking as the floating blocks gently bump into each other on their way.

Granted….the last two reasons?

He smiles wryly, the curve of his lips sharp enough to cut himself with.

Maybe those last two reasons hadn’t been as brilliant as he’d thought at that time.

Destroying Jotunheim would have been wrong.

He understands that now.

Laufey and his hanger-ons were evil…but the people of Jotunheim are NOT and wiping them out would have made him a monster…..not the shining hero he strove to be.

Just a few moments longer, and it wouldn’t have been just Laufey’s fortress and the surrounding plain that had been destroyed….it would have been all of Jotunheim.

Thinking of Eistla dead? Tjalar? Meara?

The thought alone fills him with a bottomless dread that leaves him shivering, heartsick and helpless.

He owes Thor one for stopping him in time.

Thor…

He snorts and chucks a few slivers of bark into the swirling waters below and watches them float away.

Another thing he would never have thought possible.

The brother he’d know would shamelessly credit successes to his own actions, when it had been the valour of others that had won the day.

The man he’d known lived to battle, provoking strife where there had been peace, without giving one whit about consequences.

The prince of Asgard that he’d know had little care for others, especially when he had a chance at winning glory for himself.

But the man who had faced the Destroyer on Midgard?

The man who had been willing to sacrifice his very life, without a fight, to protect others?

Who had admitted to faults of his own and had begged forgiveness for them?

And who, later, back on Asgard, had tried to STOP a slaughter instead of starting one?

Who had kept the changeling he called brother from committing the very worst act imaginable?

Even at great personal cost to himself?

That was a man he might….MIGHT…feel comfortable to call king.

If not ever HIS king. Not anymore.

So…..he owes Thor.

That little tidbit aside…. Asgard still owes HIM.

He’d taken care of Laufey. Terminally. Even though Laufey was his true father. And thus, he had prevented the war that Thor had started with his ill-advised actions.

The tree loses some more bark as his fingers dig deeper.

Disposing of Laufey and preventing the war with Jotunheim SHOULD have counted for something, even if his plan had required using the Allfather himself as bait.

But Odin hadn’t seen it that way, had he?

And the Allfather also seemed to disregard the fact that he also owed Loki for lying to him for all these years.

He sneers and makes another ice-block explode, thinking of old one-eyes’ face.

No matter the good intentions behind it, no matter that, as Frigga had said, the Allfather hadn’t wanted him to feel different…..he’d ALWAYS been different.

Always the outsider, without truly understanding why.

Always mocked or belittled for being different, sometimes outrightly shunned.

The only way to fit in, even if it was a bad fit, had been to hide his true heart behind an insincere mask, to play along with the boisterous prancing and preening, when all he wanted was a bit of quiet,  to jest wickedly when he felt like screaming in frustration.

He’d come to live the lie they’d told him and as a result, he’d never felt at home in his own skin.

Screw it.

At least he would have been able to live in peace with himself….if only he’d know his true nature.

NO…. screw them!

He wasn’t the naïve, trusting little hanger-on he had been, dependent on their opinions, their praise.

He was now his own man, and he was NOT going to ask that hoary one-eyed bastard for help where it comes to figuring out the Tesseract.

He can do that by himself just fine.

It’s not as if he has anything else to do….or anyplace else to go.

Sure, he could go back to Asgard. The secret pathways he knows are still open. He checked.

Fafnir’s tits, he could probably just drop the veil he’d shrouded himself in, letting Heimdall know where he was…that he was still alive…. and someone, probably Thor, maybe even Odin himself, would come looking for him.

But he’d hid himself from Heimdall’s gaze the moment he’d left Asgard for Jotunheim to make the duplicitous deal with Laufey, the deal that had lured the Jotun King into Asgard and to his death….and without thinking about it, he’d kept the veil up ever since.

And what reason would he have to take it down?

He doesn’t want to see ANY of them again, not even Frigga.

She wants her family to be whole…to be happy….and she’d just push until he gave in and came back. So no, he doesn’t want to see them, or talk to them or go back.

So….he’s not going back to Asgard. EVER.

Asgard isn’t home anymore.

But where else will he go?

He looks around, letting his eyes wander over the woods, covered with snow like a fluffy blanket, over the rugged mountain-range in the distance.

It is quiet here. The snow muffles even sound.

People leave him alone when he wants to.

No one keeps dragging him into things he later regrets.

He likes that.

But it doesn’t feel like home.

But maybe, one day, it will?

The Tesseract seems to have lost patience with his musings and he feels a pulse of energy come through the link.

Shaking his head and chuckling darkly, he turns his attention back to her.

The old girl is right of course.

He has better things to do than mope.

An artefact to explore.

Power to win.

So that maybe one day, debts will be repaid in full.

 

 


	9. settled

At night, he sleeps on a cot that has been set up in Meara’s room.

Late one night, after they’d shared that room for the better part of a week, she had timidly whispered in the dark to him:

“What is it like…..Asgard?”

He’d known that he could tell her it was none of her damn business and she would accept that, unquestioningly…but somehow….

He was the only one here who knew of the soft golden light that flowed through the streets of the city in the morning, bathing the soaring spires of the halls in an iridescent glow that made the shining glory of a dragon’s hoard seem tawdry by comparison.

So he describes Asgard’s gilded halls to her, the vaulting arches, the towering statutes and the broad boulevards, where people attired in bright robes flitted along like colourful butterflies.

Meara “oohs” and “aahs” in wonder and delight as his words paint a sunny and lively picture of the place he used to call home and it reminds him of how he loved to climb up on the roof of the palace, just to watch the sun rise and the city come awake beneath him.

No one here but him knows about the sweetly mellow and yet crisp perfume that permeated the orchards in spring, when the trees are in full bloom….a delicate promise of juicy, succulent apples and pears and plums come fall.

So he tells Meara about the velvety green grass that you could lie on for hours, reading; about the comforting background buzz of bees gathering pollen and of the feathery petals that would drift down like snow when a breeze sifted through the branches with gentle fingers.

“I’d like to see that”, she says and he almost says “Sure, why not? I can take you.”….but then he bites his lip to silence himself.

He can’t.

Can’t go back.

Can’t make Meara smile by showing her his mothers’ orchards.  

And so, instead, he tells her of the vast libraries of the Asgardian palace, where one could lose oneself for hours, discovering secrets that no one else had laid eyes upon for millennia.

He’s practically able to hear Meara grin, when he’d tells her of how, as a boy, he’d browse through tomes so heavy he could hardly lift them and so dusty that they made him sneeze.

She laughs outright when he tells her about that one time he discovered a spell for skewing someone’s perception and how he’d practiced it on Fandral.

At that time, Fandral, who’d always been a bit of clothes-horse, had just discovered how much the ladies appreciated a well-dressed man and he’d become so picky about his appearance it drove his friends to madness, hearing him wax eloquently about a new doublet or a fashionable pair of boots for hours. He’d even tried to drag Thor and Volstagg shopping for new cloaks.

As it turned out, Loki’s spell skewed Fandral’s perception in interesting ways indeed and that particular evening, the blonde warrior had sauntered into their usual meeting-place, wearing a broad grin, unbelievably tight pants garishly striped in flaming orange and a bruised purple, combined with a tunic in sunny yellow speckled with dots of puke-green.

A court jester would’ve worn less outrageous garb.

It was Thor who started snickering, but it took only a few heartbeats for him, Sif and Loki to end up on the floor, howling with laughter, no longer able to stand. Even Hogun had to hide a grin behind his hands and Volstagg had simply been left open-mouthed and staring, a chicken thigh raised halfway to his mouth.

And now Meara is laughing at that old story and he finds himself chuckling right along with her and it makes his chest go painfully tight, but it also makes him feel lighter, as if a weight were lifting off of him and so he tells her another story….and another.

Of how Thor received his hammer (and almost messed it up).

Of how Sif won her first tournament (and how her mother fainted, when she discovered that the mysterious masked swordsman who had held the entire court in awe was, in fact, her daughter).

Tales of fair maidens saved, realms rescued, pranks played and Meara begs him for more, just one more and grinning indulgently, he finds himself complying.

From then on, right before they go to sleep, Meara will always beg him “Tell me a story of Asgard?”….and he will.

…

Time passes.

Just as his nights, his days settle into the calm, predictable rhythm of routine too.

…

In the mornings, he helps Meara milk the goats while Tjalar makes breakfast. The animals have grown used to him and greet him with loud bleats when he opens the stable door.

One of the kid goats has taken a particular liking to him and it will nibble at his fingers and nudge his legs with its’ silky nose until he bends down and scratches the little rascal’s sweet spot, right at the bottom of the jaw where it meets the neck. After that warm welcome, he dumps some fodder into the trough for the goats that he and Meara will be milking, while the rest of the herd stays confined to their pen and then they set to work.

After milking and feeding the rest of the goats too, Tjalar is waiting for them with breakfast. It might be leftovers from the night before or bread and cheese, porridge. Sometimes pease-pudding left on the hearth to simmer over night.

There are no servants to dish up platters of fruit and pastries, to fill golden goblets with juice or light wine. He finds he doesn’t miss either the servants or the opulent fare.

There’s no Thor, who can’t be shut up with bribes or begging, no Allfather who pays intense attention to the mornings’ reports while they eat, but no more than token attention to his family. No Frigga to wink at him either, and soothe his temper when Thor teases him mercilessly yet again. He tells himself he doesn’t miss them either and that the ache he feels in his chest is just because he swallowed too quickly.

Here, in this simple kitchen, there’s just Meara, humming softly under her breath as she butters her bread and Tjalar asking him to pass the cheese.

It is….soothing.

After breakfast, they get started on one of the thousand and one tasks that need doing around the steading.

He’ll never forget the day they fixed the roof. They’d assembled all the necessary supplies: spare shingles, nails, toolbox, and then climbed up on top.

Tjalar had explained how to identify rotted shingles, how to pry them loose and how to fit the new shingle in.

And then he’d handed Loki a hammer.

It had been a perfectly innocuous gesture.

But Loki had just gripped the darn thing and stared at it as if it would bite.

A hammer.

And then Meara, who at that point had been the sympathetic ear he’d poured plenty of rants about his older “sibling” into……….Meara had giggled.

He’d shot her a poisonous look, trying to shut her up with the force of his gaze alone, but that just set her off even more.

Outright chortling, she’d pointed at the innocent implement and burst out:

“Oh, come ON! As far as hammers go, methinks YOU got the fairer deal. At least that-a-one will FIX our roof, not BREAK it!”

And he’d looked down at the simple tool in his hand, the head covered with tiny dents, the handle worn, and had tried to picture Thor’s hammer in its’ place.

Had tried to picture Thor at so domestic a chore as repairing a roof…..with Mjölnir.

The first involuntary snort of laughter had left him wide-eyed with surprise, but before he knew it, he and Meara both were shaking with belly-deep guffaws that had her teetering dangerously close to the roof’s edge. Not wanting either of them to fall, he’d reached over and pulled her down so they were both sitting on the roof, shoulder by shoulder, and together their mirth had taken flight like a murder of crows, mocking and merry, leaving them wheezing for breath.

Tjalar had thrown up his hands and climbed down, only returning much later, when their mirth had died down. He’d given them an exasperated look, but the water he’d brought was soothing nectar indeed to their sore throats.

Later on, the roof got repaired and by the end of the day, Loki could wield a hammer in ways that Thor couldn’t hope to match.

Thor had always been abysmal where it came to mending things.

…

After a quick lunch, he’ll head over to the river, to his favourite spot in the old oak’s branches, right over the river.

He’ll spend a few hours “talking” with the cube.

There’s so much she’s showing him.

Other dimensions, stars being born and dying, alien races encased in living diamond or ephemeral as the morning mist and whose thoughts he can’t even begin to comprehend…but most of all, she shows him Midgard.

Again and again.

She lets him taste something that he later learns is dark chocolate ice-cream and it leaves him practically purring.

She shows him libraries that almost rival those of Asgard in their vastness and the shimmering net of pulsing light engulfing the planet, the thoughts traveling along it ranging from unbelievably banal and petty to brilliant and of an ingenuity that intrigues even him.

She drags him into catacombs hidden deep beneath the earth and shows him where they keep her hidden.

There’s an undercurrent of frustration in her “thoughts” as she does so and he understands.

These churlish mortals have not been treating her well.

Eistla explained that when Odin took the Tesseract from Laufey, he used it to repair the damage that Laufey’s attack had left behind.

Without the Tesseract in place, to carefully balance the chilling grasp of a thousand glacial storms that Laufey had unleashed from the Casket of Ancient Winters, Midgard would have been plunged into a new ice-age.

The Tesseract had mitigated those effects, buffering the unrelenting frost that had been unleashed, dissipating it slowly over the centuries.

It had been a fitting amends for Laufey’s murderous plan, a weregild paid in full.

But the artefact had fulfilled its’ duty a while back, had returned to a resting state once the balance had been restored…had lain dormant, until one mortal, crazed by the hunger for power, had re-awoken the cube, had cruelly bound it, enslaved it mercilessly to the purpose of destruction.

He had not succeeded, but, by what he could discern of mortal history, it was only a question of time until a different power-hungry war-monger made the same kind of bid.

He wouldn’t let them.

No longer would he allow these dog-hearted curs to paw such a treasure with their grubby hands.

The Tesseract was HIS.

And sometime soon, he’d set out to collect his inheritance.

…..First though, he would have to find a way to Midgard.

It was not a task he could send a shade to do. At least not over a distance as far as this.

Across the boundaries of the worlds, a shade was fit for errands such as whispering ugly, poisonous lies in his brother’s ear, while Thor suffered in his midgardian exile; lies that were to make sure the boorish fool didn’t even so much as entertain a thought of returning to Asgard.

Such a shade could touch Thor’s hammer, asgardian by its’ nature, and feel it solid beneath its’ fingers.

But his shade’s hand had slid right through the file on that one Agents’ desk, the file with Thor’s picture on it. Too bad. He’d have liked to see what these mortals made of his brother. They certainly hadn’t seemed inclined to worship at this feet.

For reasons he still does not fully understand, the shade could not touch the Tesseract either. He tried every trick he could think of to lift it, to teleport it, to get it to create a small portal through which he could pick it up…..all to no avail.

What is his is on Midgard.

And he needs to find a way there.

A feeling of assent coming from the cube floods him and she begins pushing images at him. It’s her vision of the people around her and through her “eyes” they are spectral, semi-transparent lights that shift and pulse in strange colours.

He begins watching them, observing.

The mortals have started exploring what the Tesseract can do, but she hides her secrets from them and he watches their lights blur and frazzle as the so-called scientists grow increasingly frustrated.

And then….one day, there are two new presences.

The first one is of a tightly controlled, glittering black, shot with threads of unyielding resolve like purest steel.

The second one is of a vivid blue opalescence that is constantly shifting and re-patterning itself in interesting ways as the man THINKS.

Loki can’t help himself. He just has to get a closer look and within the blink of an eye, a shade of his finds itself in a dingy, shadowy tunnel with odd bits of metal tubing sticking out of the walls and dusty metal crates and barrels sitting in odd corners. He’s seen dvergar tunnels that were more pleasing to the eye.

And these foolish mortals dare keep a precious object like his Tesseract in a place like this? Even such artless, ill-bred louts as them should be able to tell that a beauteous wonder like her deserves better.

The first presence is a man with the straight posture and the restrained violence he has seen in the Odin’s elite warriors. The black suit covers a muscular, broad-shouldered frame and the glint in the one eye that’s left betrays a sharp and shrewd intelligence.

Not a man to cross lightly.

Nor a man to be fooled lightly.

Ah….but the hunger for power betrayed by the proprietary air with which he handles the metal casing that houses Loki’s Tesseract?

THAT is something he might be able to work with.

Later.

The second man is no kind of warrior. Older, with a slight paunch and greying, receding hair.

But oh, what boundless, hungry curiosity hidden by that uncertain laugh.

What a sharp mind concealed behind a few choice self-effacing remarks.

The warrior opens the silver box and the scholar is drawn to the Tesseract’s soft glow like a moth to a flame.

“What is it?” he asks.

And then something unexpected happens and Loki can’t keep himself from inhaling sharply as it does.

With a tendril of its’ energy, the Tesseract reaches out….and opens a link to the mind of the scholarly one, connecting him to Loki.

It is only a small link….barely a thread, stretched to the breaking point, and the man, too absorbed by the blue-glowing enigma laid bare before him, notices the link springing up no more than he would notice a spider letting itself down by a silken thread and settling on his robes.

Loki however finds himself flooded with a wealth of information.

Dr. Erik Selvig.

Gauss–Bonnet gravity.

Raychaudhuri's theorem.

Quantum Theory and the Roman ring.

Einstein Rosen Bridges.

The Bifröst.

Erik Selvig.

Professor of Theoretical Astrophysics at Culver University.

Someone who, given time, will be able to understand the Tesseract.

Loki feels a malicious smile spread over his face.

“What is it?” Selvig asks and the Warrior answers “Power, Doctor. If we can figure out how to tap it, maybe unlimited power.”

For a heart’s beat, Loki is torn between dancing with glee and snarling like a maddened dog.

He will NOT allow them to use HIS Tesseract for their purposes.

However…..

The warrior means for Dr. Selvig to discover a means that will grant him access to the Tesseracts’ power.

But unbeknownst to the one-eyed war-monger, it will be Loki who will make use of this blessed opportunity.

He will guide the scholar in his research, and the secrets he learns by watching over Selvig’s shoulder will enable him to find his way to Midgard and steal away his inheritance right from under the noses of these loggerheaded nitwits.

A grin on his face that is half-delight and half-snarl, he mutters to himself “Well….that’s worth looking into”.

And Dr. Selvig, connected to him by the Tesseract like a fly connected to a spider through the silky, delicate threads of the arachnid’s web, echoes him. Word for word.

Things look promising indeed.

…

In the late afternoon, Loki will return to the steading, either to go hunting with Tjalar or ice-fishing with old Eistla. Or, once a week, he will go down to the village with Meara, to trade for what they lack at the steading and to sell the mild goat’s cheese that Meara makes.

The first time Meara had asked him to go with her, he’d flat out refused.

The second time, he had hesitated a bit, but ended up telling her nay. Facing the onsetting bouts of boredom was less daunting a prospect than facing the rest of Jotunheim…..or what, after so long with only Tjalar, Meara and Eistla at least seemed like the rest of Jotunheim.

The third time she’d asked, he’d sprung down from the beam high up in the barn that he’d been lounging on and had practically raced Meara to the dairy to help her pack. Who cared if he set himself up for being stared at and maybe insulted and spit-upon? If he didn’t find something new, something loud and different to do, to see, taste, hear, smell, he’d start talking gibberish with himself before he knew it.

His mouth goes a bit dry and his palms start sweating when they set up their stall and out of the corner of his eye, he sees peoples’ gazes follow him with the intensity of a cat watching a mouse-hole.

With a few short gestures hidden under the table on which they’re placing their wares, he sets up spells to listen for trouble….just to be warned in advance if he needs to make a run for it.

Then the first customers approach and before he knows it, he’s wrapping up their purchases and making recommendations about which cheese will go best with a nut-root casserole.

After a while, he finds Meara furtively eying one of the young men who have gathered in front of the tavern and who are joking raucously with a group of girls by the village well and when she starts chewing her lip, he just lowers his head to hide his grin and tells her “Go ahead, I can handle this” and she’s off so fast, she leaves some of the gently falling snow-flakes swirling in her wake.

He surreptitiously glances over at where she’s standing, smiling a bit shyly as the young man she showed interest in presents her with what looks like a carved wooden spoon, and almost starts signalling for her to come back when a cantankerous old biddy starts haggling over the price of the cheeses she wishes to purchase and it takes every ounce of his charm and some bits of seriously twisted rhetoric to make her pay in full.

The ordeal leaves him blood rushing in his ears and a fool’s grin painted on his face, a grin that only grows broader when the woman tending the stall with the smoked ham and sausages right next to them jerks her head in the direction of the departing old crone’s bent back and then graces him with a saucy wink.

Busy with selling cheese and the occasional bit of easy banter that springs up with some of the buyers afterwards, he hardly pays attention to his spells.

When, at the end of the afternoon, he un-makes the magic again as they pack up, it hits him like a bilgesnipe’s kick that none of the spells caught either a whispered threat, or a shushed insult….there hasn’t been so much as a quietly hissed derogatory remark behind his back.

It makes his hair stand on the end and his blood run hot and cold alternatively…but he returns the week after with Meara regardless.

…

The first time Tjalar asked him to go hunting with him, he’d only went because he wouldn’t have felt comfortable in his own skin, refusing such a reasonable request from the man who sheltered him.

A hunt in Asgard is a grand affair involving wild rides on horses and horns loudly blown, the hunters crashing through the underbrush with shouts and much fanfare, pursuing the quarry until it was cornered and then taking it down in a flurry of spears or arrows.

A carnival of fools would have raised less of a ruckus and more often than not, he’d tried hiding himself away when Thor and Fandral had come looking for him, wanting to drag him along.

Usually, his attempts to make himself scarce ended with Thor telling him “It’ll be fun” as he handed him the hunting gear Loki thought he’d carefully stashed away somewhere where it was supposed to gather dust until it fell apart.

It never took Thor more than the time it took to saddle a horse though, to unearth his younger sibs’ gear, and by the end of the day, Loki would usually find himself at the end of the procession, covered with dust and sweat, itching, ears ringing from the noise and in the company of some foppish courtier who kept on gushing about how exciting it all was until Loki could barely restrain himself from stabbing the addle-pated twit.

As he discovers, a hunt with Tjalar is a quiet, stealthy affair. Silent sneaking, slipping between trees and rocks like ghosts, hardly seen and even heard less. Patient waiting for their prey to come close. Short moments of swift action that leave their prey either with its’ neck broken or with a swiftly flung shard of ice piercing its’ heart.

Tjalar’s way of hunting suits him like a fangs suit a wolf or claws a bird of prey.

He begins seeking Tjalar out, asking if he can join him on the hunt.

And Tjalar will take him. Will teach him.

How to read the traces his prey leaves behind in the snow, on rocky riversides, on the trees and the bushes.

How to know not only where his prey is, but where it was and where it will go…and why.

How to call ice to his hands to form weapons or how to freeze the ground so his prey will slip and fall.

The more he learns, the clumsier Asgardians seem in retrospect. Noisy. Gawky and ham-fisted.

He is NOT like them…..and for the first time since he can remember, this thought brings an easy smile to his lips and lightens his heart until it is as weightless as a snowflake.

…

Going ice-fishing with Eistla is a quiet affair too.

They’ll sit beside the hole they made into the ice, with no more effort than willing it to be there and the ice obeying their command, and they’ll watch their lines, baited with bits of earth-slugs that they dug up on the shore earlier.

The quiet will only be interrupted by short bursts of hushed conversation, when he asks Eistla about Jotunheim, about his family, about his past.

“How did Meara and Tjalar know who I was?”

“The patterns of your skin, child. They show you are of the royal bloodline…and after Farbauti’s death, there was only one person left in all the worlds who bore such a pattern. You.”

“What do you know about commanding the Tesseract?”

“Well….Ymir used to have a sceptre. The blue stone in it was born of the Tesseract and through it, Ymir wielded the Tesseracts’ power. With it, he would build bonds with his closest friends and advisors, with his most trusted warriors.

With those who had a true heart.

And together, they would achieve what no one else could even hope to aspire to.”

“What happened to the sceptre?”

“Well….Laufey could not use it. And so, he sold it to an alien race, the Chitauri, in exchange for passage to Midgrad, so he could wage war on the mortals.”

His stomach churned.

He’d read about the Chitauri.

Had heard about them too, spoken of in unusually hushed tones at the long tables in the banquet halls. The Chitauri were merciless and without honour. They swarmed weaker worlds like locusts, gorging themselves on local riches, taking what they found useful and malevolently destroying what they didn’t.

He might get the Tesseract back.

But his grandfather’s sceptre?

It was probably lost forever.

Making a deal with the Chitauri is tantamount to inviting a rabid weasel into a hen-house and as one man, he is in no position to take on the entire Chitauri army.

Verdandi’s tears, even the armies of Asgard were reluctant to take them on.

It is better to concentrate his efforts on more immediate…more solvable….questions.

“Why aren’t people here…..more angry at me? I almost destroyed Jotunheim….and you told me that it’s no secret amongst the Jotun.”

“The race of Ymir is older than that of Asgard. We are not mere children like them, to judge before we have listened and to condemn before having weighed and measured all the arguments…..or at least we used to be, before Laufey.”

A sense of unease unfurls in his gut, like a snake prepared to strike.

“So…” he licks his lips and fidgets slightly. “So….they might still condemn me….for what I did? Punish me?”

Eistla reaches over and ruffles his hair.

“No youngling. The Council already convened quite a while ago.”

A smug smile spreads over her face and settled there.

“For the first time in centuries, I might add. Laufey didn’t hold much with asking his people about their wishes and needs…especially not those of his people that he hadn’t seduced into joining his army.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Odin Allfather DID send a message, explaining. There are still people here that know the old crow from a time where he was still a babe swaddled in rags. People who expected him to keep our prince safe. People who trusted him to handle the challenge of raising Ymir’s grandson at the court of Asgard with more sensitivity.”

A smile, tentative and a bit wobbly, comes to his lips and Eistla chuckles darkly.

“He got quite an earful. And was quite contrite afterwards. Lies, however well intended, breed only misery and you, youngling, caught the worst of it.”

A wistful sigh on her part, a flinch and a frown on his. She sighs once more, deeply, then catches and holds his gaze, face gone serious.

“You reacted badly though. You lied. You tried to kill the man you had known as your brother all your life. You attempted to destroy Jotunheim.”

He flinches. Looks away, shoulders hunched, as if expecting a beating.

She lays a hand on his shoulder and he shoots her a short look, only to let his eyes fall back to the ground, as if the dirt between his toes suddenly has become the most interesting thing in all of Jotunheim.

Her voice carries a hard edge as she speaks on, as if trying to carve her words into his memory and he can feel his body tense and coil up, as if ready to spring him out of this conversation which all of a sudden seems more like sharp-fanged trap rather than a comfortable stroll down fascinating new paths.

“You did wrong youngling. There’s no denying it. But the council believes that the lies the Allfather told, trying to cover his wrinkly old arse, left you ill prepared for the truth and when you found out, you were left to deal with it alone. So part of the blame falls to the Odin.

Killing Laufey and attempting to kill Odin’s firstborn?

Selfish acts, meant to secure your position.

Hateful acts, born from anger and fear…which in part were kindled by the lies you’d been told all your life….

….and also acts that, if the Allfather is not mistaken, were at least in part meant to protect Asgard."

A glazed look films his eyes at her last sentence, as if he’d been pole-axed and her chest aching at the sight, she reaches over once more and takes his hand. His eyes clear as he meets her gaze; hope a small, flickering flame lighting his features and her voice mellows as she continues.

“The Council was quite impressed with your cleverness in using Odin as bait. It was a cunning ruse and you played it well to boot. You prevented a war with it….and, unbeknownst to yourself, avenged your mother and your people. The Council considered and weighed all these…..and so…..”

She lets the silence stretch until he can’t take it anymore and an impatient and quite worriedly chocked “….and so?” escapes his lips.

She points at his fishing line, which clearly has something tugging on it.

“And so I believe our dinner is nipping at your hook. Better get to it.”

“Eistla!”

She grins, the expression full of good humour and cheerfulness.

“Be at ease, youngling. The Council decided that at this point, living a lie for most of your life was punishment enough and they chose to let it rest at that.”

A blush of the deepest blue spreads over the youngster’s face and he blinks a few times, rapidly, trying to keep the sudden flood of tears that gather in the corner of his eyes from spilling over. He bends down to reel in the fish that has caught on his line…and to hide his face.

She lets go of his hand and pats his shoulder, wanting to reassure him that he’s welcome, that he’s safe....

…..that he’s home.

Finally.

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Sparked

The first time he sees it, he almost misses it.

He’s been watching Erik Selvig through the “eyes” of the Tesseract, whispering a suggestion here, asking a question there, leading the good doctor down a path of his choosing.

Eric’s intellect burns with the fire of a small sun, with the lesser lights of the other scientists orbiting him like miniscule planets and asteroids.

There are guards too of course, their dull glow hardly worth the notice.

Loki has come to largely ignore both the other scientists and the guards. They are of little consequence.

The flash of burning amethyst, just at the edge of his vision, far outside the usual spectrum, catches him unawares and his whole body jerks as if surprised by roaring thunder coming from a clear blue sky.

The presence is there and gone again in less than a blink of an eye and and he has to actively search for it until he finds it again.

He finds it, high on up, hidden in the deep shadows, outside of the area he’s been paying attention to so far.

As seen through the Tesseract, it’s a sparkling, highly polished jewel of purest violet, shot through with veins of dazzling silver and gleaming black and now that he’s knows it’s there, he can feel an intense sense of FOCUS coming from that singular presence, sweeping over Selvig’s lab and beyond.

He’s about to dismiss the presence as just another guard, if only a better trained, more dangerous one, when he can feel the mortal’s attention brush over HIM, hot and bright like a dying star, sparking violently as it touches him…..and for a few breaths, Loki, worlds away, perched on his branch in the old oak, holds himself absolutely still, heart pounding like a drum, not breathing, not blinking, because he’s afraid that he’s been discovered.

The mortal makes NO move to acknowledge him in any way and eventually, that sense of being a rabbit trying to hide itself from the notice of a hawk passes, and after what seems like a small eternity, Loki slowly, carefully dares to exhale.

Inwardly, he’s cursing and he finds he needs to hold on to the branch he’s lying on with both hands, because his limbs are left feeling as if they were made of dough.

If the mortals were to discover his spying and meddling now, they certainly would be bound to make things difficult for him, and that would be MOST inconvenient.

That presence is a genuine danger and Loki needs to find out more about it.

Is there truly a mortal who can sense Loki’s interference, or was it just a fluke?

And if the mortal indeed is able to notice Loki’s presence….just how much can he see and hear?

His limbs are still weak and tingling and he really shouldn’t recklessly expand his own energy when he’s unstable like this but he needs to know.

“Seeing” other worlds filtered through the Tesseracts’ perception is easier, but in order to get a better picture, he needs to see with his own eyes and so, heart still beating so hard it seems to sit in his mouth, he creates a shade and sends it out, all the way to Midgard.

He hones in on that amethyst presence and finds the mortal perched high up in Selvig’s lab, his sea-blue eyes skimming over the activity below, missing not even the tiniest detail.

Loki can’t help but be reminded once more of a bird of prey that soars over fields and forest on silent wings, its’ sharp eyes not missing so much as a mouse hiding in the grass, miles away, and he shudders.

The man’s posture is deceptively relaxed, strong legs dangling loosely from the platform on which he’s sitting, well-muscled arms resting comfortably on the bright yellow railing, the broad back and shoulders casually sloped forward. He’s wearing the kind of black-on-black outfit that Loki has come to associate with “military” and the icon of an eagle with spread wings, which Loki has seen all around this base of operation, is emblazoned on the short-armed vest.

The man’s hair is the colour of wet sand and it reminds Loki of the shores of the sea, where, as a child, he used to spend hours writing runes in the sand, the sun warm on his face and the water sparkling like a jewel, while Thor was out on one of the rocks jutting out into the water, fishing.

He could have gone fishing too…but the way the sand crumbled between his fingers, yielding to the pressure of his fingers…the way the waves erased the marks he had made, so he could re-write them over and over…..

….he didn’t even notice that Frigga had come to call him home until she was standing right next to him. 

Loki has to supress the sudden urge to run his fingers through the mortals’ short and tidily groomed hair, the desire to dishevel it a bit almost irresistible. If he could touch the mortal….would he leave his mark there too?

His fingers itch and he briefly laces them behind his back to keep himself from doing something futile and foolish.

Nevertheless, once he’s thought about touching the enemy guard, he finds shocking, tantalizing pictures playing in his mind, of grabbing that sandy hair, of using it to pull the mortal’s head back and expose the line of the man’s throat….of running tongue and teeth along the man’s neck, nipping at the skin, making him moan.

Snorting derisively and shaking his head, but unable to take his eyes of the black-clad figure lounging before him, he kneels down beside the man to get a closer look, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, elbows resting easily on his thighs now.

Failing to understand your enemy or your own heart is a weakness and if he truly wants to bring the Tesseract home, he needs to solve this startling enigma.

What is it with this short-lived creature that makes him react so strongly?

What is the pull?

Where is the call?

The man is nothing but a mortal, his inferior in speed, strength, intellect, experience….anything that counts, really.

Imagining to pair himself with such a base creature is only little better than imagining himself rutting with a pig.

Somehow though, the smouldering heat spreading through body, all the way to his groin, doesn’t agree.

Who is this mortal, to affect him so?

An angular face and strong cheekbones, a straight nose that is ever so slightly snubbed at the end. The mouth is perfect, neither too full not too thin and the upper lip’s double arch is like a bow, strong, yet flexible. 

It strikes him then that this is not the first time he has seen this guard, though it was only a short glimpse that he caught at that time.

It was back in the desert, just after Thor had been banished. 

Just after Thor had been deemed unworthy of the throne, exactly as Loki knew him to be.

…

_He’d watches Thor trying to lift the hammer, grunting with the effort like an overburdened beast and muscles straining like the rigging on a ship that foundered on a skerry, but Mjölnir, who until then had been at the Odinson’s beck and call like a well-trained dog, does not shift so much as the breadth of a hair._

_The significance of this is not lost on Thor and not before long, he drops to his knees, eyes gone dead, defeat and bleak despair written into every line of his slumping form….and Loki, watching from the shadows, is not sure whether to laugh or to cry.…but at least, now the knowledge that he must continue to bar Thor from Asgard and its’ throne, for the sake of his people, no longer has his innards tied in quivering knots. The reason for Thor’s banishment still holds._

_The guards chain Odin’s first-born like a farm beast, and lead him away, docile and broken._

_It is good that mother can’t see her golden-haired boy now. She’d cry._

_Fists clenched in the pockets of the mortal garb he picked for reasons he can’t remember, he pictures himself breaking those mortals’ necks for daring to touch a God like that and oh, how he wants to punch Thor in the gut for letting them treat him that way._

_Bile sits in his throat like a creeper vine, seeding his tongue with bitter acrimony, and if the All Father were here, he’d spit it all in the old bastard’s face._

_All this is Odin’s fault alone._

_Odin should have known that Thor, brash and full of self-righteous pride, was not ready for the throne yet. If Odin had not made so ill-advised a choice as to plan the coronation of a man who would plunge Asgard into disaster for the sake of his pride, then NONE of this would have happened._

_They’d be home._

_Happy._

_Content._

_Living a lie._

_Snarling, he turns to descend into the courtyard where Mjölnir resides, fused to the rock. If Thor is not worthy, then maybe Loki, to whom the burden of ruling has fallen, is?_

_There’s a noise overhead, of machinery moving, of cables straining and of metal joints grinding against each other, stopping him in his tracks._

_He raises his eyes to the weeping skies, and there, up high, standing at the edge of a crow’s nest held by a crane, an archer is in position, bow lowered and undrawn, but an arrow still knocked, his eyes leisurely following Thor’s shadow as Odin’s son is being led through the compounds’ translucently illuminated corridors._

_The archer’s body is taut, ready to spring into action in the blink of an eye, but in the glaring floodlights that shine above, Loki can tell that the man’s eyes hold the same emotion as those of Frigga always did, when she patched up the scrapes and cuts and other minor injuries her sons had incurred while they were up to no good at all._

_There’d been that day Thor and he had snuck into the forge._

_They had been too young to be permitted anything but wooden practice swords, but both of them had been burning to hold a true warriors blade._

_The armoury was well guarded, so it was off limits, but Loki had noticed earlier that the forge did not seem to be guarded at all. The temptation had been too much for either of them. How were they to know that the Blacksmith had set Firesalamanders to guard his goods?_

_Of course Frigga had chided them sharply as she dabbed healing salves on their blistered skin…but her eyes had been soft, just like those of the Archer above._

_Mother would like him._

_Somehow, the unexpected sympathy emanating from the Archer makes the necessity of leaving Thor here amongst the mortals seem less cruel, less like an unavoidable betrayal._

_Maybe the old man knew what he was doing after all, when he sent Thor here._

_…_

So….the Archer from the Desert was here too.

The Mortals might not be the Asgardian’s equal where it came to power and means of warfare…but the fact that the Archer had been in the desert, where the mortals had found Mjölnir, and that he was now here, with the Tesseract….it spoke of the kind of relentless diligence and astute assessment of facts that could be dangerous all in itself.

He’ll have to take that into consideration when he finally comes for the Tesseract.

When he makes his move, he can’t allow himself distractions or surprises and the Archer is shaping up to become both.

He needed to know more about this man, so he can figure out a way to circumvent his inevitable intervention.

What does he know about the man?

He is a warrior, but not like the warriors of Asgard.

He is patient.

Quiet.

Observant.

Dangerous.

And yet he has seen him show compassion, even for those who might be his enemies.

An unusual combination, rare and beautiful like the birth of the star.

“You have heart.” Loki whispers softly, almost against his will.

The mortal sharply cocks his head and frowns, as if listening to some distant sound, and Loki freezes once more, his heart beating as fast as the wings of a dove, trying to escape a stooping hawk.

Yet again, Loki barely dares to breathe as the Archer looks around, searching.

When the mortal returns to his normal position, a tension remains in his shoulders that wasn’t there before and Loki feels goose-bumps running up and down his arms .

Is the Archer perceptive beyond what is to be expected from a mortal or is this just a freakish coincidence?

He is sorely tempted to say something else, to reach out and touch the mortal, just to see if the man truly CAN see or hear him.

It’s a stupid idea though and Loki is no child, unable to resist temptation. 

He can ignore the trembling of his fingers as they ache to touch.

The mortal’s eyes flick over the bustling scientists below, briefly rest on Selvig, then sweep across the guards, checking their positions.

Then the Archer reaches up to his ear where a small, skin-coloured button is nestled at the corner where the ear-lobe borders the auditory canal, something that had hitherto escaped Loki’s notice, and the mortal presses down on the button and speaks.

“Meyers?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Thought I heard something coming from your corner of the lab. Can you confirm?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Keep an eye out. Do a sweep of your perimeter and report back. Do you copy?”

“Yes, Agent Barton.”

His mouth suddenly gone dry, Loki swallows and licks his lips.

Idun’s apples.

The man’s voice is smooth and sharp, like a sword sliding from a scabbard.

Just hearing it sends frissons down his spine, like the fingers of a lover caressing his nape would.

Also, it seems that….Agent Barton….HAS noticed him, if only peripherally.

To be, if only almost, found out by virtue of such close scrutiny, such rapt attention….

It should make him squirm.

It should make him angry and resentful.

…..Heimdall’s gaze was similarly observant and it always did.

And Dvalinn’s beard, when he finally figured out a way to hide himself from Heimdall’s penetrating stare, he felt so light inside, a floating feather dancing on the breeze would’ve seemed leaden and ungainly by comparison.

But with this mortal?

He thinks of that intense gaze focusing on him and his mind is sent scrambling, trying to come up with a thousand ways to make it happen.

He WANTS those sea-blue eyes on him…..wants the Archer to SEE him.

The reason for it is not hard to figure out.

…

_Between his brother and himself, Thor, simply by virtue of being the elder, is always was the first where it counts._

_Thor is the first to learn how to ride, the first to be picked when they play with others, the first to learn how to use a sword, the first allowed to sit in during audiences, the first announced at any official function, even if it is just a small banquet._

_Thor is like the sun that rises above the horizon, the harbinger of day, and Loki finds himself eclipsed by his brothers’ light, people paying him as much heed as they would to the stars fading into the dawn._

_The Allfather does not believe in special privileges or private tutors for his children and so Thor and he find themselves running around with the offspring of the courts’ nobility as they grow up._

_Thor is always at the heart of a group, laughing and picking playmates while Loki tries to carve a place for himself on the edges._

_More often than not, when they play, it is him who wins the game for his group, mostly by sneaking around the back where others charge towards their goal. He wins, but even his allied playfellows will fidget and shy away from him when he appears in places they had not expected him to be._

_When a foreign dignitaries’ horse appears in the stables or when there’s a kitchen-maid crying, hidden behind the hen-coops, he will stop and investigate as the others roll their eyes at his weird ways and run off to their games._

_When they squabble, they solve their differences with fists and kicks, but they soon learn that, even though he is the runt of the litter, an offhand remark of his will sting worse than a black eye and leave more lasting harm._

_Not before long, when Thor is not around, other children mostly prefer to ignore him._

_The sole exception are the times when the parents of one of the children are petitioning Odin for something or other. That will get him a grudging invitation to tag along from those parents’ offspring. After all, it is not wise to offend the royal family, and who knows what tales the undersized stripling might tell at home?_

_Most of the time, he will decline such invitations and find something else to do._

_If he only matters to them because he is Thor’s brother and Odin’s son, then he does NOT wish for their company._

…..

_A spell gone wrong, the results of which Loki had tried to hide in his room when he was a child?_

_Heimdall saw it, and told the Allfather._

_The resulting lecture mortified Loki to the bone and he remembers the unruly get of some of the courtiers snickering at the back of the hall as Odin’s calm and clear voice tore his dignity to shreds._

_…._

_The key to the kitchens that Volstagg had bribed him into nicking, since the young warrior was crazy about smoked Hafgufa fin….and that rare delicacy was reserved for the grown-ups?_

_Volstagg had managed but a bite or two when the guards had came, who should not have ventured into the kitchens at this time at all._

_The only thing that warned them in time was the fact that he had insisted on keeping watch and they had to managed to make a run for it….a run which had ended up right in front of the disapproving stare of the Bifröst’s guardian._

_Another lecture that hadn’t been pretty._

_…_

_The first girl to smile at him and tell him he was handsome was Sjöfn. She’d started lingering at the edge of whatever he was doing days beforehand, picking flowers in the gardens near the spot where he was reading….sitting on the windowsill and braiding her hair in the strategy-room where he and Thor were recreating battles long past with maps and markers….joining the group he was with when they headed out to the woods to spend a leisurely afternoon swimming in one of the mountain-lakes._

_Sjöfn smiled at him and told him he was handsome and pulled him into a shaded little grove, where it was quiet and where it was dark and where she kissed him until they were both gasping for breath and tight with need and longing._

_She’d tried to entice him to her bed that night, but he didn’t want to be like Thor, who tumbled one wench today and another the next._

_He wanted to do this RIGHT and he wanted more than just a quick romp in the sheets._

_He wanted Sjöfn to keep smiling at him in ways that warmed him all the way down to his toes._

_He wanted to keep spending hours with Sjöfn in the gardens, lying in the sweet-smelling grass, his head cradled in her lap, while she gently stroked his brow and called him the most wonderful man in Asgard, thoughtful and wise and finer-looking than anybody else, again and again and again, and in return he’d make her laugh with delight by telling her that for her sake, he’d try to steal treasures from the hoard of Fafnir himself._

_At night, they’d go for a picnic at the edge of the sea and she’d snuggle up to him by the fire he had lit and Sjöfn intertwined her fingers with his as he quietly sang to her, his voice blending with the dulcet murmuring of the waves on the shore._

_He wanted it to last forever. But then, one morning, he’d decided to surprise Sjöfn in her bed, and he’d pilfered some still-warm bread rolls and a jar of honey from the kitchens and climbed up to her balcony. He slipped over the edge of the balustrade and landed silently on the tiles when he heard whispers through the drawn curtains. A male voice, teasing. And Sjöfn._

_“You haven’t de-flowered our little book-wyrm yet, you saucy wench. I believe you are losing your touch. If you have not succeeded by next week, you will lose the bet. ”_

_“It’s not me, it’s him, I swear.”_

_Loki didn’t need to see Sjöfn’s face to know that she had her lips pursed in a pretty little pout. He’d heard that tone often enough._

_“I despair of him, I truly do. He is so BORING, so TEDIOUS….so TIMID. Not like the elder prince at ALL.”_

_Sjöfn sighed, as if pining for her one true love._

_“Thor. Now there’s a true MAN. Not a darkling whiny git, but verily one of the golden warriors of Asgard.”_

_Loki had stood frozen in place for what felt like hours, listening to Sjöfn and her lover deride and mock him. His paralysis had not broken until the words finally tapered off in favour of the sounds of passionate fornication, and then he’d slipped away, silently._

_It was Thor who found him in his most secret hiding place, up in the loft above the stables, and his brother had held him as sobs wracked him like earth-quakes. And when he ran out of tears, all numb and dead inside, Thor had hauled him to his feet and had taken him to town to the best ale-house and they’d both gotten drunk until both of them had trouble standing…and then, Thor had dragged him to a discreet little house in the weaver’s guild district, where women of questionable virtue plied their trade and in the morning, Loki awoke with a queasy stomach, a raging headache and a stranger to the pleasures of the bedroom no longer._

_From then on, Loki had taken a leaf from Thor’s book, tumbling into the sheets with whomever he pleased, be it a comely wench or a good-looking lad, all easy met and easy parted…but no matter how shyly she smiled at him or how honeyed the words she spoke to him hereafter, he never, never picked Sjöfn for his trysts._

…

For all his life, people have seen Loki as a lot of things.

The second prince.

The odd one out.

An unruly youngster.

A useful ally.

A game-piece to be used.

But Agent Barton?

He has eyes like a hawk’s and they are unclouded by prejudice or ambition.

When the time comes to tear down the veil that yet conceals Loki from the man’s gaze, then the Archer will SEE him.

And if Loki is lucky, the Archer will like what he sees.

Will like it a hundred-fold more than being an inconsequential drone for a faceless organization….an organization that is nothing but a tool in the hands of vainglorious war-mongers.

And then?

Then Loki will be leaving Midgard with more than just the Tesseract.

 


	11. Sneaked

There’s a discreet little beep coming from the phone which he’s set on the mattress, right beside his pillow, and within seconds he is wide awake.

For an instant, he holds himself perfectly still, taking care to keep the rhythm of his breathing slow and even, as if he were still asleep, and listens.

The sounds are all normal.

Outside his room he can hear boots on concrete, the steps unhurried but rhythmical. Jamison’s doing his rounds, as per schedule.

Down the hall, in the lab, he can hear Selvig engaging in an animated discussion about something called “ADM mass” with his one of his assistants, Dr. Catherine Howards, their words only slightly muffled by distance and the cardboard-thin door of his quarters.

The damn dripping coming from the faucet of the washbasin to his right has started up again. How is it that they can make a whole damn Helicarrier fly, but are unable to permanently fix one leaky faucet?

Well, at least everything seems normal. McCay is a reliable second in command, but he’s no field operative and his instincts, while good, are far from being as sharp as Hawkeyes’.

In the darkness, he rolls out of bed and stretches, stifling a yawn.

If only ‘Tasha were here. Or Coulson. Then at least he’d get a good night’s sleep. But with only McCay to spot for him, he’s restricted his rest to short naps at irregular intervals.

This is surveillance, not a hit, so granted, he’s not straining himself beyond his limits to get things done. Keeping things up like this almost indefinitely would be possible, but it’s not exactly fun either.

God, he needs some coffee. Black. Hot. And a quick shower. Cold, to wake up.

Sighing, he grabs his throwing knife from underneath his pillow and a towel from the locker beside the washbasin and heads for the shower.

At least he’ll be able to jack off in peace and quiet there. Being in command has its’ benefits, like having a bathroom with a shower all to himself. It’s tiny and the cracked tiles are a fucking ugly shade of mouldy beige, but it’s his.

A quick meeting with Miss Palm and her five daughters will take some of the edge off, but hell, it’s been far too long and he could seriously do with a good hard fuck.

Why does shit always start going down the moment he so much as starts thinking about taking some time off?

He’s close to being a bit too tightly strung right now and he knows it. Any chance to unwind a bit is welcome.

The fact that he’s scurrying around underground in a warren of tunnels and caves more like a rat and less like the hawk Selvig calls him is not helping any, and damn if he isn’t starting to jump at shadows.

Doesn’t help that as a roustabout at the carnival, he’s been involved in setting up haunted houses that were less weird than this place.

Odd sounds where you don’t expect them and fleeting movements at the corner of your eyes that disappear when you try to get a closer look.

Under any other circumstances, he’d suspect some kind of hostile intrusion, an enemy spy scoping out the compound before moving in for a heist or somesuch.

Just to make sure, he’s gone over the entire perimeter and quite a bit beyond with a fine comb.

He knows the blue-prints of the base by heart and he has climbed through all of the service ducts himself and installed surveillance devices in any spot he felt might offer an intruder some kind of access or hiding place.

Nothing.

Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s losing it though. They’ve come across some seriously weird shit lately, even more weird than usual. Hell, how often do you come across a God who’s stepped right out of a fucking fairy-tale?

So yeah, maybe he ISN’T losing it and maybe there’s something going on that they simply don’t have the tech yet to pick up on.

Until then, he’ll have to rely on his gut feeling, and that’s usually a pretty good indicator of what to watch out for.

Strangely enough, whatever it is that has him on the edge like that, it doesn’t feel hostile enough to call up Fury and ask for some hard-core back-up.

The itching right between his shoulder blades that usually comes from someone being about to stab him in the back if he lets his guard down even for one second is missing.

As he steps into the shower, dropping the towel and the knife on the nearby toilet-seat, and soaps up, he idly wonders if it might actually be something harmless.

When he was still a kid and living in the orphanage, there’d been a few weeks where the whole house had had been spooked and people had been jumping at shadows too.

_Stuff had been disappearing from the kitchens, mostly the odd sausage, bits of roast; there’d been strange noises on the roof and in the attic at night, vases knocked over in the hallways._

_The old geezer who ran the house was a superstitious asshole and after pest-control hadn’t found anything and a round of randomly beating up the best known mischief-makers had not yielded any confessions, he’d hired a freakin’ exorcist to deal with the matter._

_None of it had helped._

_Two days after the visit of the “exorcist”, which had the whole house smelling nauseatingly of incense, Clint had spied the mangy stray crouching in the bushes._

_He himself was perching way up in the old oak that sat in the middle of the playground, ‘cause his bruises were still fading and he wasn’t in the mood to collect more when their “housefather” tried once more to find a culprit by beating the shit out of any kid he didn’t like the looks of._

_The fur on the tiny grey was scruffy and you could count every single rib, but the cat’s tail was swishing back and forth like a farmer’s scythe and there was a predatory gleam in its’ green eyes. It was watching the kitchen door._

_Sure enough, just a few moments later, one of the household-helpers came out, carrying a several big bags of trash. The cat slipped in through the open door behind him, quick as lightning, and came back out a few heartbeats later, a whole chicken drumstick that was almost as big as itself clamped in its sharp little fangs, all the while the household-helper, his back turned, was still stuffing the bags into the trash-cans._

_When the cat had disappeared into the bushes, Clint had already been making plans to befriend the little stray._

_If it didn’t get someone to look out for it hereabouts, it was bound to get caught and then the feisty little thing would end up in a tied sack thrown into the river to drown…if they didn’t just bludgeon it to death the moment they caught it._

_He’d carefully staked out the places where he thought the grey would show up and had laid out bits of food for the stray, mostly chicken livers and hearts and a saucer of milk. No processed, spiced foods, those weren’t good for animals. And he’d always taken care to put something that smelled of himself nearby, a shirt or a bandana._

_It only took half a day for the cat to discover the treats he’d left for it._

_It took another day until it actually came out of its’ hiding place and fed on any of it._

_It took a whole week of Clint sitting a bit closer each day as the cat fed until he was close enough to reach out and touch it. He got a whole minute of being allowed to scratch the little cat behind the ears, even getting it to purr, before the stray apparently decided that it had had enough and sank its’ sharp little teeth into his finger._

_Didn’t mean though that Clint gave up on it._

_At the end of the summer, thanks to the extra food and the occasional bit of shelter that Clint provided when he could sneak the cat into his room without anybody noticing, which was a LOT, the cat had grown into a sleek, well-muscled predator._

_When Clint settled in one of his many hidden look-outs, be it in the highest branches of a tree or on some rooftop, the cat would often settle beside him, rubbing against his legs while he scratched its’ ears or curling up in his lap, purring like the engine of a Harley._

_The tom even had had his shots._

_Pulling that last bit off had required enlisting Barney’s help, which had come at a price, as well as two break-ins into the house manager’s office to make phone-calls and forge some documents and a clandestine trip into the nearby town._

_He’d also needed money, which he’d gotten by lifting money from the wallets of a set of “prospective parents”. They’d been the wealthy type and it seemed like they hadn’t even noticed the money missing. At least there hadn’t been any kind of hubbub about them missing anything._

_And even if they had noticed and had pegged him as the thief. So what? It wasn’t as if he was going to get himself adopted anyway._

_The prospecs’ always preferred the younger, cuter, more malleable children. Those who didn’t have much of a past._

_Nicking stuff had been frighteningly easy and Clint had kept it up since. Couldn’t hurt to have a stash of cash somewhere…just in case._

 

He chuckles to himself.

Maybe whatever has him spooked is some kind of small animal, a cat or a ferret, which has wandered onto base and is now haunting the twisted maze of the corridors and ducts here.

Because that’s what it kinda feels like.

Maybe he should start putting out saucers of milk.

 


	12. Pranked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AmandaHuffleduck is the one to blame for the shower thing.  
> That woman sure has a delightful mind. ^_~

He’s yawning as he enters the stable.

Sleep has become much less appealing than exploring other worlds, Midgard specifically, and so he’s not been resting as much as he should.

Still, it’s not as if he has to be really awake for such a mundane task as milking goats.

Tjalar and Eistla have gone off this morn, before dawn, some kind of Council Meeting, and Meara has snuck off to meet Aegir, the young man who gave her that beautifully carved spoon the other day at the market, to go swimming.

He chuckles quietly to himself. Well, probably not JUST swimming.

He quickly milks and feeds the goats and then makes himself comfortable on the bales of moss in the back. Yawning widely yet again, he unwraps a bundle with a bit of bread and cheese that he brought along and starts munching. There’s also a chipped mug he brought from the kitchen. Now, filled with some of the fresh warm milk, it provides much welcome sweetness between bites of bread.

Once his hunger is sated, he snuggles into the velvety caress of the moss-bales, stretching languidly for a minute to get all those tiny kinks out of his muscles that being still tired has put there.

 

Agent Barton drinks coffee when he’s tired. The drink looks like a cross between smoking coal made liquid and manticore ichor and why anyone would want to consume something that looks like it could char a man’s tongue right out of his mouth is beyond him.

Loki is still debating whether or not to let the Tesseract give him a taste.

Maybe he should go with Selvig’s coffee first. The man adds milk, turning the inky liquid into something that has a velvety, light-brown colour and which looks moderately more palatable.

 

While he nibbles at his bread, he sends his thoughts out along the link, to the Tesseract. She purrs like a cat as he arrives at her side and creates a shade. One of the monitors across the hall starts beeping and one of the scientists hurries over to it and frantically begins taking notes on his Tablet, glancing up every so often to check the read-out on the monitor.

Neither Barton nor Selvig seem to be around.

A quick enquiry with Tessa yields the information that the good doctor is taking his rest and sleeping in his rooms and that Agent Barton is in his quarters too, but that he’s awake.

It’s a roll of the dice that he can work with.

Selvig’s calculations are coming along nicely and while they are still far from finding the key that will allow them to open portals, they certainly have come far in discovering what the lock looks like and what will trigger it. They’re in no hurry, so there’s no need to wake the good doctor.

He still needs to get more familiar with this underground fortress first, with the people working in it, with this organization, this….SHIELD. And of course with Agent Barton himself.

His face splits in the anticipatory grin of a kid that has been promised candied apples for desert.

Looks like he will be joining the Archer for his rounds.

Perfect.

It took a try or two to find out how best to do this kind of thing, with the Archer being as sensitive to his presence as he is.

The first time he tried walking beside Agent Barton, just so he could watch his face, the results were somewhat unsatisfactory.

Walking side-by-side with the Archer, he was still within the mortal’s visual field....something that left Agent Barton frowning, scowling and narrowing his eyes in a way that promised a lot of unpleasantness for whoever or whatever the mysterious source of his irritation was....and that just wouldn’t do.

First of all, Barton had proven himself not only of keenest sight by picking up on Loki’s presence, but when he had spent a whole hour going over the security footage of himself walking the corridors and cross-referencing it with the read-outs of the scanners, all in an attempt to find the cause for his unease, he had also made proof of a mistrust that ran deeper than Yggdrasil’s roots.

Later on, he’d overheard Barton on one of those small speaking devices that Loki now knew to call “phone”, giving a status report to his superior, Director Fury, the one-eyed warrior in black who had recruited Selvig.

The conversation had made it painfully clear that Loki could not really afford to attract Barton’s attention, for the Archer had mentioned that even as he had no evidence to support his suspicions,  he would call in reinforcements if he came to the conclusion that something was truly amiss….and this would make stealing the Tesseract infinitely more difficult.

Loki is but one man, and even if he is an adept sorcerer and a warrior of no mean skill…it does not change the fact that he is about to take on an entire fortress teeming with soldiers.

If, by any mishap, he cannot steal the Tesseract away with stealth, he will have to use force…and even though he can deflect the projectiles of their weapons, sooner or later it will tire him out and they would defeat him.

He would have failed….and that is something he cannot afford to do.

The Tesseract is the ONE thing that is truly his. His heritage. His legacy.

The thought that he might somehow fail to recover it is enough to make his guts writhe like they were attempting to crawl out of his chest and it sends bitter bile flooding his mouth.

Returning to Asgard and spending the measly rest of his existence being eaten alive by the steady stream of poisonous scorn that his former peers would shower upon him there would be a kinder fate than living with the failure to recover the Tesseract.

He wants both the Tesseract AND the Archer…but if he had to choose between the two, he would gladly sacrifice the latter and think the price a small one.

However….he DOES hope to have his cake and eat it too, and if he does nothing untoward to alert the good Agent before it is time, chances are his wish will come true.

 

The second reason why he has to tread carefully with the mortal is that, if he can woo the man into following him….maybe by letting Agent Barton chase him all the way back to Jotunheim once he has stolen the Tesseract…then sooner or later, the Archer will realize that Loki had spied on him before acquiring the cube, for the mortal is no fool.

And if that time of reconnaissance iss something that the Archer rememberes with anger and frustration, then this would taint all and any overtures that Loki made towards him.

Not a good start if you wanted to tumble someone.

So…for the time being, he needs to observe, without being overly noticed, and if the Archer did somehow perceive a foreign presence within the fortress which he was set to guard, he should not, in any way, think of it as a nuisance or a threat.

The first step towards the solution of the challenges he faced was the simplest.

He no longer walked side-by-side with the archer, but instead a few lengths behind him.

Near enough to overhear any conversation, but far enough to be out of the range of notice. And if the Agent turned his head a bit, he’d slip behind a corner, another guard or a few crates to stay outside of the Archer’s range of perception.

When Loki could still see Agent Barton’s face while he followed him, he’d learned and memorized the way the Archer’s eyes crinkled just the tiniest bit when he was amused, but when laughing outright would have been unprofessional….the way the Archer smiled indulgently and narrowed his eyes dangerously when someone was trying to hood-wink him….the way his brow knitted just a bit in his otherwise impassive face when he was out at the shooting-range, practicing his art.

Now that he had taken to walking behind the Archer, he minutely catalogued the cadences of the Agent’s voice, the way it was edged, sharp as freshly broken ice, when he thought one of his subordinates was slacking, the gravelly smoothness of well-worn pebbles it held when talking to a shy secretary, the cutting sarcasm it carried when he had to deal with Selvig, with whom he traded verbal pot-shots whenever they had to talk for longer than half a minute.

It is not difficult to tell from which source that last brand of strife is born.

Selvig might be the top dog amongst his pack of scientists and his interactions with his assistants and colleagues is easy-going and infused with wry humour…but whenever he interacts with any of the military personnel, his shoulders grow tense and his speech is marked by clipped curtness.

Especially when Barton was in the room, even when he was not interacting with the doctor, Selvig, who was usually too engrossed in his work to notice much of anything, would pause every so often to cast a furtive glance in the Agent’s direction, as if worried that Barton was about to shoot him.

When one of the scientists, a buxom brunette, had whispered to one of her colleagues that she thought that Barton was cute, and Selvig had overheard, he had interrupted the conversation sharply to tell the dark-haired woman not to get involved with the Agent because Barton was a killer who had blood on his hands.

What was it that Selvig had said, the first time he had been brought into the depths of the compound?  “I was thinking that you had taken me down here to kill me.”

It would seem that even though Selvig is now working for the people he feared, his worry has not alleviated by much….and that Selvig deals with the prime focus of that anxiety, Agent Barton, by becoming snippy with him.

Agent Barton however shows little patience for such maidenly jitters and he returns Selvig’s waspish favours, giving as good as gets.

What might the Archer’s tone be like if he were not needled by one who fears him, but gently teased by one who wants him?

Oh….does he ever intend to find out.

But first he has unwitting allies to guide, a way to find, opponents to spy on…one of which is, as of yet, Agent Barton.

A short inquiry with Tessa yields the information that Agent Barton is in his quarters, a place that the Archer pays brief visits to, mainly to rest.

Since the Agent is awake, it is likely that he will emerge from his room in just a short while, but Loki finds that he does not have the patience to wait.

A few steps down the hall take him to the Archer's room. He's followed the Agent around quite a bit and this is one of the places he ended up in by doing so.

The first time he entered the sparsely furnished room, he started wondering if Barton had been assigned to this post as some kind of punishment. The place is clean, but the walls are as bare as those of a cave and what little furniture there is, is scuffed and scratched by what seems to be centuries of use.

The pigs in Asgard are better stabled than this.

However, even as the Archer might glare at the leaky faucet of the washbasin, he does not wince when the bed squeaks beneath him as he sits nor does he frown when the doors of his locker require a bit of force to be properly shut.

By now, Loki knows the extent of Agent Barton's responsibilities and the powers that have been conferred to him, so he is aware that this maltreatment of an honoured warrior is not meant as punishment.

It still sets his teeth on edge regardless and even as the Archer remains indifferent, Loki finds himself glaring at the rickety furniture, thinking how much more fitting the Archer would be housed in a suite at the top of a spiralling tower, with huge windows that afford a roundabout view of the lands below, with furniture carved out of golden oak and a bed bedecked with blankets of the finest wool.

But even as he regards the room with disdain, observing how indifferent the Archer accepts the simple and worn furnishings lets Loki breathe easier.

After all, he is no longer a prince of Asgard.

He no longer has anything to offer in the way of worldly treasures or in the way of prestige or fame…he cannot offer the kind of abode that would do the Archer justice.

These days he is little more than a farmhand….an occasional goatherd and a hunter. He’s getting to be a passable carpenter and he’s learned how to make cheese without ruining it.

If Barton does not mind the humble quarters he has been assigned, then maybe he won’t mind either that the one who would lure him from his post is of rather humble standing too.

And….there might be other things he can offer Agent Barton.

 

….

 

 _As the days pass, he catches himself more than once, trying to picture what his life_ _were like if he had the Archer by his side and the Tesseract in his possession._

_The imagined details of a shared future come as easily as snow melting in the sunshine._

_The Archer practices faithfully at the range each day, face as calm and concentrated as that of Meara when she chops wood._

_The monotony of practice is interrupted one day though, when another Agent, senior to Barton and only passing through, something to do with documents having to be dropped off in person, makes a smart-aleck remark about archery being hopelessly outdated._

_Loki instantly wishes he could curse the gor-bellied lout with warts, but he is constrained to watch_ _from the sidelines, hands tied by his lack of magic while but a shade in this realm and by the need to remain undiscovered._

_He wouldn’t have needed to fash himself._

_In the blink of an eye, the Archer’s calm concentration switches places with a roguish grin as the Archer turns, quick as a stooping hawk, and looses an arrow that pins the other Agent to the wall by the sleeve of his jacket._

_“Can’t do that with a gun”, the Archer drawls, voice dry as tinder, as he saunters calmly over to retrieve his arrow._

_As the Archer returns to his shooting practice, the man who had mocked him is left behind, pale as plaster and open-mouthed like a simpleton and Loki has to bite his lips to keep himself from snickering at the sight._

_After witnessing that particular incident, it had become easy as breathing to picture the Archer perched high up in one of the firs along one of the larger leas, a wicked glint in his eyes, bow ready to take out the wild boars that Loki and Tjalar flushed up for him._

_Loki owns a few furs by now, the result of his hunts with Tjalar, and especially the white rabbit fur would make nice warm clothing to keep the Archer from feeling the cold of Jotunheim as well as serving as excellent camouflage._

_Also, once Loki has reclaimed the Tesseract, there will be worlds begging to be travelled, secrets to be discovered….adventures to be had._

_For a start, wouldn’t it be something to get Jotunheim’s fur and leather trade with the other worlds going again?_

_They could sell thick, scaly wyrm skins to the dwarves who are ever in need of solid leathers to be part of the armour they craft._

_They could sell doe leather, thin and supple as silk, to the elves of Alfheim._

_And trade can be dangerous, with brigands and thieves and dishonest merchants trying to despoil you of your hard-earned fortune, meagre though it be._

_What gleeful hilarity would ensue if they could send those would-be-robbers packing, pricked by arrows and befuddled by magic?_

_It is conceivable that the Archer might be amenable to such ventures._

_After all, he has yet to see the Archer sit idle. Even in the short periods of time where he is not on active duty, with his second, McCay, being in command, the Archer might prowl the compound, looking for trouble, restless like a bird of prey, hooded and jessed, waiting for the moment where it can fly free._

_Loki’s been private to a moment or two where the Agent DID find a problem that warranted his attention and it left him wishing for more of the same._

_There was that one time where Barton checked up on one of the guards who manned a surveillance unit, the dark room illuminated by the dozens of flickering monitors…and the guard peacefully snoozing in his chair._

_Barton does not wake the man up. He does not shout. He does not drag the man off to be flogged, as the Armsmaster in Asgard would have done with any of his guards that he caught sleeping while on duty._

_Instead, Barton sneaks out of the room, quiet as a cat, closing the door behind him without a sound._

_Then he jogs off to sick bay, where hails one of the medics and asks for a strong laxative. The man doesn’t even bat an eyelash as he hands Agent Barton a small brown bottle with liquid and he carefully answers all questions as Barton inquires about dosage, side effects and the time it takes for the drug to work._

_Loki starts to suspect where this might be going and by the Nine mothers of Heimdall, the Archer is sorely testing his restraint, because for a moment, he needs to cover his mouth with both hands to stop a chuckle from escaping._

_Barton’s next stop is the office section, the part where people meet for small breaks to gossip like magpies and, as they say, “coffee up”._

_The Archer takes one of the mugs out of the cupboards, pours a good measure coffee into it, drops in a few spoons of sugar too, waits for the coffee to cool a bit, and then adds a liberal dose of the laxative._

_After that, he wanders over to the nearby cubicles, where a bunch of young men and women stare at screens and tap away at keyboards. He calls a pretty young blonde with curly hair over to him._

_“Hey, Katie.”_

_“Agent Barton.” The girl’s eyes turn the size of saucers as she approaches and her voice is hardly above a mouses’ squeak._

_Barton smiles shyly, like a small boy who has been assigned to go berry picking with a much older girl that he likes. He even drops his gaze to the floor for a moment and scratches himself behind one ear, as if he’s not sure what to do with his hands._

_“Uhm…yeah….well, I have bit of a problem, and I was wondering if you could maybe help me with it.”_

_Loki’s not sure which impulse is the one that’s the hardest to supress: the one to giggle out loud, the one to strangle the secretary as she smiles at the Archer as if he were a tasty sweetmeat or the one to grab Barton’s wayward hand and rain butterfly kisses down on the Archer’s nose and mouth until he kisses him back. He settles for holding himself still, silently laughing, as he watches the play unfold._

_The blonde secretary straightens, standing up a bit taller than she had before and the intensity of her smile increases until it burns like a small sun._

_“Certainly, Agent Barton. Whatever you need of me.”_

_“Well Katie, you see, Agent Monahan, who’s currently manning the surveillance room down the hall….Pete’s had it rough lately, and I’m afraid he’s fallen asleep on duty, and well….I should be rippin’ the guy a new one for it, but I don’t really want to be that hard on him, I mean, he’s got a tough job and nobody can be on the top of his game all the time….”_

_Barton looks up at the young women, from underneath his lashes, his eyes moist pools of quiet pleading, like a puppy asking to be petted._

_The blonde secretary nods enthusiastically, her curls bouncing on her shoulders._

_“How can I help you?”_

_“Well, I got him a cup of coffee, to help him stay awake…but I can’t go in there. I’m his superior, and if I’m the one to wake him, all official-like, then there’ll have to be consequences. But I know you kinda like him…and he likes you….so maybe you could go in there, wake him and ask him to drink this coffee so he can stay awake and alert for the rest of his shift? So we can book this as no harm, no foul, with none of the higher-ups the wiser?”_

_The blonde takes the cup that Barton holds out to her, beaming beatifically at him as if he was some kind of hero stepped down from Valhalla, and then hustles down the corridor._

_Agent Barton grins like Sif would when someone told her she couldn’t do something because she was a girl, and walks down a hallway to the left, where the latrines are._

_He leans casually against the wall, right beside the door to the men’s room and activates the comm-link in his ear, opening a channel to his second._

_“McCay?”_

_“Yes, sir?”_

_“Do me favour, reduce the security clearance for Katie Sheperd from the secretarial pool by two levels. She’s far too gullible to be working where she is and she has no idea how seriously we take security around here. Also check if she’s slipped any kind of information about our operation here to anybody else yet, friends, family, online acquaintances. Hell, check if she’s posted anything to facebook or twitter. The other thing I need you to do is to demote Peter Monahan from security. Guy’s been falling asleep on duty. I want him doing perimeter checks from now on, teamed up with Agent Patel. Patel’s an old, reliable hand and Monahan damn well better not fall asleep while walking. By the way, get someone ready to take over Monahan’s post. The guy will be clocking out unexpectedly in a few.”_

_McCay can be heard chuckling over the comm and the Archer matches the man’s mirth with a shit-eating grin that’s like watching a shooting-star skid over the night-sky: bright, lovely beyond words and something you can make a wish on. Loki finds himself leaning against the wall too, because with knees that feel like putty, how can he hope to remain upright if he does not?_

_The Archer settles in to wait, passing the time by checking messages on his phone._

_He’s responded to twelve short messages and queries when hurried footsteps sound along the halls and Agent Monahan, face pale and sweaty, walking as if he were trying to hold an egg with his thighs while he moves, turns around the corner. He stops abruptly as he sees Agent Barton, face going white as chalk and a noise escaping him that sounds like someone was trying to strangle a squirrel, all high-pitched distress._

_Monahan might have stood there frozen for all eternity, but then he farts loudly, squirms and with a short and puffing “Sir” hastens past his superior, through the door that leads to the latrines._

_The noises that emerge from the room afterwards are anything but pretty, a cacophony of blurts and gurgles that sound like broken, clogged pipes under too much pressure, the whole thing underscored with liberal expletives that would have made a sailor blush._

_Agent Barton pushes off from the wall and saunters down the corridor _with a smug smile_ . Loki follows behind, muffling his own laughter by biting his hand until his teeth break skin. Even despite this, his shoulders are shaking hard with unvoiced laughter._

_The Archer pauses, looks back as if sensing something amiss, and Loki slides behind an office cupboard to conceal himself, almost stumbling because his feet don’t quite obey him as he pictures the Archer and himself in another time and another place, free to lean on each other’s shoulders as they laugh until both of them are gasping for air._

_Glancing around the corner, he sees the Archer chuckle, shake his head and then move on._

_Slightly breathless, hand aching and heart light, Loki follows him._

_It would seem that the Archer might be well matched with the god of mischief._

_…_

Still sporting a smile a mile wide as he remembers, he stops in front of the door to Agent Barton's room.

It is closed, as expected.

Huffing an exasperated sigh, he prepares himself to go through.

His shade might not be able to interact with physical objects but still, moving through them makes him feel as if an army of fire-ants crawled all over him.

In the greater scheme of things though, it has yielded interesting enough information before, so it is worth the trouble.

Once, he’d found Agent Barton seated at the rickety table, disassembling, cleaning and re-assembling his firearms.

…

_Loki settles on the bed behind the Agent and, watching the Agent work, he learns about the projectile weaponry that mortals use: there are different models and makes, handguns like the Colt M1911 or the CZ75 and sniper rifles such as the M24. The shots they can fire are limited. Seven for the Colt, sixteen for the CZ75 and ten for the M24. They are loaded using clips filled with bullets and, most interestingly, they might malfunction and jam for a variety of reasons, such as dirt in the chamber._

_The last tidbit of information might prove useful, if he can create a spell that will jam those guns….maybe a simple transportation spell using a few grains of sand….but it would have to have something to hone in on….Even nastier if he can figure out a way to make the bullets explode while still in the magazine, but yet again, that would require some kind of mark to direct the spell to the bullets and the bullets alone…._

_He will have to think about this._

_Later, he follows the mortal to the firing range, where he discovers that in any hands but those of Agent Barton, guns are faster and easier to fire than a bow, their use requiring less strength as well and their reach being longer._

_Even a child could pull a gun’s trigger and kill a man._

_However, as guns require little skill or training to use and even less strength or courage, this allows any common thug to use one, almost without effort. With such power accessible to those that would use it for darker purposes, it’s a wonder that midgardian civilisation has not completely crumbled into the wastes of barbarity by now._

_…_

Another time when he’d sought out the Archer in his rooms, Barton had been sitting on his bed, back leaned against the wall, going through some files.

_…_

_Loki quietly slips on top of the locker, which is neither broad nor long enough to allow him to lie down comfortably on it, so he sits, legs dangling down the front._

_He has to hunch down a bit, because otherwise, he would bump his head against the low ceiling, but he doesn’t mind leaning forward, balancing precariously on the edge. It gives him an excellent view from above of the reports Agent Barton is reading…and of Agent Barton._

__The sandy blond head below is bent over reports_ that speak of packages delivered, contaminated with some kind of sickness, of conmen waylaying panel trucks, so they might impersonate the delivery-people, of hoodlums planning to abduct the loved ones of people who work here._

_The package had been caught in the post-room, since it was standard procedure to scan the incoming mail for all kinds of things, but Barton dwells on the issue for a few moments, brows furrowed, then takes up his tablet and searches the SHIELD database for a while, after which he adds another analysis to be run on the incoming mail with a few swift strokes of his pen._

_Concerning the conmen that had tried to waylay the truck….Agent Barton had had that group pegged as people who were likely to try something of the sort and so he had had one of his people strike up a romantic relationship with one of the crooks. Pillow talk has foiled more than one clever plan, a lesson those incompetents obviously had missed._

_SHIELD had been amply forewarned and when the heist went down, the panel truck had been manned with well-armed Agents and a small grin, sharp as a knife, cuts across the Archer’s face as he reads about the would-be marauders finding themselves caught in their own trap._

_With the hoodlums that had tried to abduct the mother of one of the head-secretaries, things had turned a bit hairier. The men had pulled her into a van while she was shopping, that the woman had escaped with no more than a few scrapes and a bit of a fright was only thanks to a tracking device that all who were somehow related to SHIELD were offered (even if the relation was only by proxy), some careful monitoring of the woman’s activities by an attentive Agent in surveillance and to the speedy reaction of the rescue team that Barton had sent out and coordinated._

_Yet, even though no one but the thugs got seriously hurt, Barton snarls like a dog that had its’ tail trod upon and jots down a few questions that will need to be discussed with Director Fury in order to find a way to better address such issues, the Archer’s stylus clicking harshly on the tablet, like knocked-out teeth falling to the ground._

...

As he still wonders what will await him this time, his shade passes through the door, the wood-like material it is made from hardly posing an obstacle, especially since it is not much thicker than one of Loki’s fingers.

Still, he shakes himself like a wet dog once he has passed through, trying to get rid of the itching tingle that jitters throughout his whole body, his eyes darting furtively around the room like hunting bats. After all, one can only keep out of sight if one knows the exact position of the one likely to be watching.

At first sight, the room is….empty.

However, there is a small, open doorway at the back that leads to a bath and the sound of water running can be heard.

Loki swallows. Hard. This….he hadn’t thought of.

As if they had a will of his own and his mind had none, his feet drag him towards the entrance of the room, through which the seat of the privy can be seen, the seat covered with a towel on which one of Agent Barton’s wicked throwing knives is placed.

Should an attacker break into the room’s front door, there would be enough time for Agent Barton to make a lunge for the weapon, throw it at the attacker and kill him with it, then grab his bow or one of the guns from the locker in the room proper in order to deal with any other aggressors.

Loki has known his father’s elite guards to be less careful than that while taking care of their ablutions.

He carefully squeezes himself beside the head of the bed and peeks around the corner of the door-frame.

To the right, a bit to the back of the bathroom, there is a shower head set into the ceiling, with a drain on the floor.

Barton has wedged himself into the corner where the shower is located, his back leaning against the walls, his feet firmly planted on the ground about an arm’s length away from it. He is slightly hunched over, with his head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as if in pain, lips slightly open, panting hard, one hand braced flat against the wall, the other wrapped firmly around his cock, jerking up and down in a fast, irregular rhythm.

It is a good thing that Loki’s real body, back in the barn on Jotunheim, does not wear pants but a loose leather kilt, for all of a sudden, pants would be far too tight. The sight of Agent Barton has made him grow painfully hard in less than a heartbeat and he has to fight to breathe, because for all that he knows, the Sylphs, incarnations of all things light and beautiful, might just as well have stolen the air from his lungs.

Thankfully, the Agent’s eyes are closed, because even if his life depended on it, Loki could not move right now to escape the hawk’s gaze.

The shower is on and there’s a slight haze in the room, broken by the harsh fluorescent light above. The Archer’s legs are under the centre of the jet of water.

His broad chest, the nipples hard and dusky, gets hit by the spray and water droplets course over the Archer’s skin, glistening in the stark bright light of the lamp above like liquid crystals.

Almost against his will, Loki thinks about licking those droplets off and of following the little rivulets of water down to where they pool in the Archer’s groin. He has to clench his teeth so hard his jaw hurts, but there is no other way to stifle the moan that threatens to escape him.

Barton’s movements slow down. His face scrunches up and he bites his lip. He speeds up again, exhaling sharply. Slows down. Snarls and speeds up again. Slows.

Mutters to himself.

“Damn.”

And Loki can’t help a lop-sided grin from spreading on his face, half amusement and half sympathy.

Now isn’t that familiar.

Feeling yourself tense as you come close to the edge, but whatever you’re doing doesn’t seem good enough to give you that final little push, so you start switching around, but nothing helps…because elsewhere, your thoughts are racing a mile a minute, dwelling on all the million little things that are NOT going your way right now and you can’t get them to shut up long enough to get off.

And in the end, you give up, because things are going nowhere and you find yourself under worse strain than before, all coiled up inside, in a bad mood that you can’t shake for ages.

Agent Barton’s not giving up yet though, because he takes a deep, shuddering breath, briefly dips his head and starts up again, with long, easy strokes, his grip light. He runs his thumb over the tip of his glans in slow circles, brow furrowed, upper lip curled back on one side, teeth showing.

It’s the most distracted Loki has ever seen the Archer, eyes closed tight, mind unfocused and slightly dazed….it is a situation that offers….opportunities.

At a very low risk.

An acceptable risk.

And wasn’t one of his stated goals to have the Archer remember being spied on with fondness?

His lips curves in a mischievous smile and, his heart pounding like rain during a summer storm, his feet carry him across the room, past the toilet, to the side of his Archer.

He crouches in the narrow space beside him, his back to the door, his head at one height with the mortal’s chest. He looks up, fixes his sight on the man’s face, his cock aching and twitching anew each time Barton gasps, close to coming but never close enough.

The way Barton’s head is thrown back, if he opens his eyes, the first thing he will see won’t be Loki, it will be the ceiling. It will give Loki time to dispel his shade and make good his escape before the little hawk regains his focus.

And maybe, just maybe the Archer is too far gone to distinguish between what his ears tell him and what his fevered mind and body supply.

He will have to try it.

An acceptable risk.

He leans in to let his breath ghost over the Agent’s nipples and is rewarded by seeing them tighten up even further.

The Archer moans; a long drawn out sound that sends shivers of ecstasy rushing through Loki’s body.

Wanting to hear it again, he emits a series of little puffs along the hawk’s ribs, almost like tiny kisses, but his lips never touching skin.

His reward is another moan, a little deeper, a little longer than the first, and the Archer’s hips jerk forward, driving his length into the tight hollow of his hand.

“Faster” Loki whispers, voice hardly louder than a leaf drifting on the breeze.

“Yes.” murmurs the Archer, his hand moving more rapidly up and down his cock and Loki’s breath hitches.

Barton is responding….but not aware.

 Perfect.

His whole body aching, as if lovingly flogged with the softest silk, and his skin too tight, Loki contemplates the sight before him, the straining muscles, the slight stubble on the chin, the flushed complexion, the winged curve of the mouth, begging to be kissed, plundered.

But no…not yet. Even as he burns with the need to press his lips to the Archer’s, this is the one thing he cannot do. Who knows if the Archer, mind swamped with pleasure and the need to be touched, might not detect Loki’s caress?

For now, he has to stick to things that the Archer might think of as being only a fantasy, provided by his own overheated mind.

“Harder” Loki orders, voice soft like the footfalls of a cat.

“Yes.” Barton sighs, a hint of a sob mellowing his voice.

The Archer’s hips have found a new rhythm as he pumps his cock into his fist, gasping hard at the increased friction. He is close now, so close.

“Come for me.”

“YES.”

Barton shoots his load, body going rigid as if he’d been stabbed, mouth wide, groaning, breath reduced to short, desperate pants that slowly even out as his body relaxes, melting against the ugly greyish tiles as if they’re all that stops him from dissolving into a puddle.

Time to go.

Loki dispels the shade and finds himself back on Jotunheim, still snuggled into the bales of soft moss.

He looks down at himself, chagrined.

So much for doing a bit of reconnaissance today.

It’s just a good thing that leather cleans easy.

 

 


	13. Questioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each Paradise has its' snake and if you're not watchful, sooner or later you might get bitten.  
> So you'd better get an early start on looking for trouble.

"Did you see? They had LIGHTS! From Muspelheim!!! The eternal ones that you don't need fuel for. And they're so BRIGHT!. I want one! Can you imagine? I'll be able to work on embroidering goat-skin vests all during the darkness of winter, and we can sell them at the spring fair with a nice profit! I tried for that last year, when a bit of extra gold would have been nice after our cow died of winter-fever, but with only with candles and firelight' to see by, I ended up turning my fingers into pincushions and the patterns looked like twisted sheep entrails and not like the elegantly knotted vines they were supposed to look like!"

Meara fairly danced as she walked, kicking up puffy clouds of powdery snow, which glittered in the bright sunlight like diamond dust.

It made a pretty picture, the blue-skinned girl prancing in the middle of the seemingly endless white, the tone of her skin mirrored in the infinite cerulean expanse of the cloudless sky above.

In the distance, the rising morning sun painted the jagged, monumental grey of the surrounding mountains, which were streaked with the everlasting milky blue of glaciers, in fantastic hues of golden orange and deep purples.

And yet, despite the beauty surrounding him and Meara’s exuberant mood, Loki’s insides couldn't have felt colder and more jittery if a hunting dragonfly had taken up looping around in the pit of his stomach.

Still, despite this, he couldn't suppress a wry little smile.

Who would have thought that the ordered, carefuly crafted golden beauty of Asgard would pale by comparison with the silvery majesty of Jotunheim?

Certainly not him.

Meara rushed a few steps ahead, up the path towards the lake and then turned around, flashing him a grin as words continued to tumble from her mouth like coins from the purse of a fair maid out on a shopping spree and his wry little smile turned into a full on chuckle.

Who would have thought that one day, a blue skinned "monster" would wrest smiles and even laughs from him with greater ease then his "friends" in Asgard ever had?

Meara was bouncing from one foot to the other as he caught up with her and she hooked her arm under his, which would have been awkward if she had been as tall as, say Eistla, but apparently, her final growth-spurt was yet to come.

He prayed that that day was still a long way off.

"What do you think? We could invite some other crafters too and then we could spend all those long nights telling tall tales, gossiping like magpies and getting all those things done that require light good enough to see with. Angrboda could finally get to tinker with all her ancient toys, she's always complaining that she's limited to forging and assembling cruder and more graceless constructs during the dark months, because there's not enough light for working the finer, delicate ones......and she might even be able to buy some of the more exotic parts she needs to finish that Hunter. You know, she salvaged the most parts she needed from the ruins of her mother’s keep hidden in the depths of Ironwood..... but she never could find the last pieces that she needed to get it to come alive. Sutur's tits, she's been dreaming about getting it to work ever since we were old enough to recite a ballad!"

By now, Meara was more or less pulling him along, forging a way for both of them where snow-drifts as high as his head had obscured the trail, and he was thankful that she was so caught up in the excitement of an off-planet trader coming to Jotunheim that she didn't seem to mind that up until now, he had been dragging his steps a bit.

He was pretty sure that apart from his slightly hunched shoulders and him dragging his steps, he was also sporting a bit of a hangdog expression, a dead giveaway that he wasn’t even half as enthusiastic about this outing as she was.

Thankfully, she hadn’t pushed it when, a few minutes ago, she had given first his footsteps and then the way they'd come so far a quizzical look, a slight frown narrowing her brows, letting him know without a doubt that she'd noticed.

He'd just shrugged and smiled apologetically, and she'd nodded briefly and given him a quick hug before walking and chattering on as if she hadn’t just caught him waffling on his decision to tag along.

In similar circumstances, Thor wouldn’t even have noticed, Fandral would have mocked him and Sif would have just rolled her eyes at his indecisiveness.

For a moment, another wry little smile curved his lips and he gave Meara’s arm a short squeeze before unhooking his arm from hers and giving a small push so she could scamper ahead once more.

They were headed for the lake this fair morning, where they were supposed to meet up with Meara's friends, all of them youngsters that so far, he had seen mostly from afar and only spoken to when they came to his stand at the market to buy some cheese.

When Meara wasn't looking, he wistfully glanced back at the steading that lay behind them once more, wondering if Meara would believe him if he pleaded a headache or some such so he could go back home.

Probably not.

She wasn’t some dumb Asgardian to take his pithy excuses at face value.

No, if he really wanted to go back, he’d have to own up to it, plain and square. She deserved as much.

The idea of returning to the farm and finding a quiet corner where he could let his mind, piggy-backing on one of his shades, wander all the way back to Midgard was truly almost too tempting to resist and the need to obtain wares that they could trade next evening be damned.

On the other hand, visits to Midgard came with their own set of challenges.

Today was Eric Selvig’s day off and Loki usually made some time to tag along, as Selvig would invariably head for the library to catch up on some reading.

Selvig’s preferred seat in the reading room was a solitary, huge, comfy arm-chair covered with well-worn brown corduroy, right in front of the windows that made up the west side of the library and overlooked the pale umber expanse of the Mojave desert.

The gray-haired scientist has a marked tendency to lean to the left, resting the book or journal that he was reading on the arm-rest on that side.

It was almost as if he intentionally left enough room for Loki to settle down on the plush back-rest of the chair, his feet resting on the empty armrest to the right, leaning his body to the left too so he could more or less comfortably read over Selvig’s shoulder.

Last week-end, Selvig had started a story centered around a mermaid joining the “adult conspiracy” during her quest for a perfect pair of panties, then switched midway to a herpetology journal featuring an article on the mating habits of tuataras, browsed a bit in a book on negotiation tactics called “Getting to Yes” and flipped through the pages of what Loki now knew to be the pages of a franco-belgian comic called “Asterix”.

It was a selection pretty much par for the course and for all that Selvig’s eclectic and erratic reading tastes have introduced Loki to a wide array of pop-culture references, commentary on midgardian history and politics as well as what passed for cutting-edge advancements in the sciences on Midgard….and fashion advice. Scarves were considered a must-have accessory to suits this year, something he personally approved of whole-heartedly. Not that he'd get to wear a suit in the forseeable future. And they'd look strange with his now blue-tinged skin anyway.

The downside to joining Selvig in the library lay with the fact that the astrophysicist rarely finished what he started when reading, and more than once, he had closed-up on a book or an article right at the moment where they got to the bits that interested Loki the most.

And of course, he himself couldn't very well pick up the reading material on his own and finish it, because his shades’ ability to interact with physical objects is limited both by the energy required and by his need for secrecy.

So until he could figure out a way to persuade the Tesseract to somehow unobtrusively grant him access to the knowledge held in books and papers he could hardly browse on his own, he would have to resign himself to Selvig’s occasionally frustrating reading habits…..and keep in check his own deep-seated desire to throw all caution to the wind and expend enough energy to grab the man by the lapels of his suit and shake him until he finished what Loki had been reading over his shoulder….and then closed-up before they got to the best parts.

To bad that his other favourite past-time on Midgard had become fraught with its’ own set of challenges since the incident in Barton’s shower-stall a fortnight ago.

Up until then, following Barton around to learn what he could about NASA, SHIELD, the Pegasus Project and all the security measures in place in the underground research facility as well as the Archer himself had been all fine and well, but…

Loki sighed and with a quick gesture made some snow that had drifted across the path shift to the side, a frost-giant skill he was still working on perfecting, then furtively adjusted his leather kilt, thankful that Meara was a bit ahead now and didn’t witness the bulge that had suddenly sprung up at the front of the short leather garment, and which would hopefully deflate once more quite soon since they were nearing the goal of their little expedition.

But even if she had noticed…..the young Jotun woman would not pry into his affairs or make lewd jokes like the Warriors Three would have done and he would not have to try and dodge rude questions with the help of some glib, evasive jokes…..no, it was much worse.

She’d just quietly observe for a while and then, without mentioning a thing, he’d probably just find some additional bed-linens in his cupboard, which would come in handy, since he was getting tired of sneaking them out of the storage closet.

And here he had been thinking he had outgrown having wet dreams like an immature youngster.

He could feel his cheeks grow hot as he realized that he had not shown such a mortifying lack of restraint and self-discipline since Hogun’s quite voluptuous elder cousin had visited Asgard’s court, and had teased him quite mercilessly with revealing glimpses at her shapely calves and well-rounded ass.

His ardour hadn't cooled either until one afternoon, she had called him in for a truly mortifying little chat, where she’d made it plain that, while she was amused by the calf-eyed adoration he lavished on her, she considered him no more than a mere youth, too young to truly share her bed.

Now, he no longer was a mere youth and he suspected that maybe, Agent Barton might be a lot more amenable to truly sharing his bed than Hogun’s cousin had been….IF he could figure out a way to steal the Tesseract….IF he found a way to reach Midgard so he could implement that plan…….IF he could lure the Archer back with him to Jotunheim……and IF he could get Barton to forgive him for making him fail his duty to guard the Tesseract for SHIELD, something that a deeply loyal man like him was not wont to do quickly or easily.

Until then though, he suspected that he would only start to sleep more restfully once he found the opportunity for a repeat performance (or several) of the unexpected and furtively stolen intimacy he had shared with the somewhat oblivious Archer.

However, so far, all hopes of catching the sharp-eyed warrior in a moment of distraction where he could get close to him without the Archer becoming aware of it had been in vain.

Loki hung his head a bit as he plodded along and blew at the strand of hair that kept getting loose from his shoulder-length braid and falling into his eyes, then yawned.

He wasn't sleeping well either.

At night thoughts of regaining the Tesseract, the only bit of heritage he could still call truly his, and fevered visions of one Clint Francis Barton in all his nude glory, his skin slick with water droplets that shimmered like diamonds chased each other in his head until he’d wake up in the mornings, overtired, with dark shadows beneath his eyes and in desperate need of a little clean-up.

Maybe it was for the best that he got out of the house for a while.

And did he not owe Tjalar and Meara a bit more of a contribution to their household than just tending the goats, doing odd jobs around the house and helping them to sell their goods come market day?

They kept him clothed, kept him fed and welcomed him into their steading with kindness and good grace.

Meara wished to trade with the off-planet visitor, the first one after Laufey’s death and the destruction of his army and his stronghold.

Laufey had rigidly controlled all trade with outside worlds, keeping his people in a constant state of need, with access to civilized utilities like healing chambers, constructs like Hunters or Muspelheim lights reserved for those that faultlessly toed the line.

The sole official space-port had been controlled by the nearby stronghold, both now destroyed by the Bifrosts’ might and his own mad, painful folly.

Was it not a good thing that traders were showing up on Jotunheim once more so that what remained of a once proud people could freely trade and barter for much needed goods once more?

And was it not opportune to team up with others in this quest?

Meara, far ahead by now, turned and waved at him, having reached the summit of the mountain flank from where the path descended all the way to the lake.

The village youngsters were planning to go pearl-diving in the briny waters, so they'd have something to trade tomorrow night, when the trader would set up shop in the villages' tavern.

The man, a faintly reptilian looking creature, reminded Loki of the garden lizards that lounged on the stone-walls surrounding the palace's pleasure gardens, quietly basking in the sun so they seemed to become one with the stone beneath them, only to break out into lightning fast movement when they sought to catch a fly or a cricket.

As Loki had watched him on market day, he seemed affable enough, handing out a few free samples of his wares to those who would approach him for some preliminary negotiations, but somehow, his presence made Loki’s neck itch and his palms sweat and freeze over, so they’d creak with hoar-frost as he cut up and packaged his wares.

Maybe it wasn’t the trader himself though.

Maybe it was because the trader was an unwelcome reminder of what lurked beyond the borders of Jotunheim.

Every once in a while, he would wake from a nightmare, shaking and his cheeks wet with tears, still thinking he’d been found out and dragged away from Tjalar’s holding, back to Asgard, where Odin, on Frigga’s insistence, would make a few sanctimonious speeches about forgiving his wayward, mind-addled son and where the golden, never-ending corridors echoed with ugly whispers as he hurried down them, always under the watchful and aloof eyes of endless rows of guards, always rushing towards a mindless and inconsequential court duty that he never seemed to be able reach, no matter how fast he ran.

Save of course for the times where he dreamed of Odin locking him in the treasure vault, one of his many trophies, gathering dust, only to bring him out once he'd found a way of turning him into a figurehead that he could make use of to expand his influence over the now leaderless realm of Jotunheim.

What little news trickled in from the other realms gave not even a remote indication of anybody looking for him and rumour had it that Asgard still believed its’ fallen prince dead.

Still, each night, he triple checked the wards and spells that hid him from Heimdall’s and anyone else’s gaze.

And what if what little news he had from Asgard was false?

After all, was not Jotunheim’s connection to the other realms tentative at best?

Laufey had made sure to keep his people ignorant of what was going on outside its’ borders, making a big show in the first years of his rule of destroying any world-mirrors he could find and of having anybody found to be in possession of a speaking crystal with enough reach to connect the realms broken on the wheel.

Still, some people had managed to hide such items and now, with Laufey and his henchmen gone, people would set them up in taverns’ taprooms and the main halls of the bigger steadings and would listen to the news floating in the ether.

It wasn’t much, but it was more than people had had before.

And there was another thought niggling at him.

The markings on his skin betrayed his parentage and his identity to each and every Jotun he met, just like they had on that faithful morning when Meara had found him sleeping in Tjalar’s barn.

After Meara’s initial outburst and Tjalar inviting him into his home, not a single person has said anything about it.

Nobody acknowledged him as anything other than as what he presented himself as: a simple farmhand.

A casual observer with no knowledge of who he was or of what had occurred just a few short months ago would have thought him no less than just another village youth, albeit one of the shyer ones.

And yet, not short after the elders’ council had passed judgement on him, all and sundry must’ve known what he had done, that he had almost killed them all.

After their fateful little chat while ice-fishing, he’d only asked Eistla about it one more time and she’d patted his hand and told him not to worry and then asked Tjalar for another cup of tea.

So what if indeed the council had weighed his misdeeds against the circumstances under which they had occurred and had declared the burden Odin’s lies and scheming had placed on his shoulders too much for him to bear, thus exonerating him at least partly for his acts?

So what if the outcome of his attack on Jotunheim had proven more beneficial than harmful, for Laufey the Tyrant and most of those who followed him lay dead now?

Either sounded like a good reason why no one had offered violence in retaliation, nay not even so much as a harsh word.

As far as his spells could ascertain' not even behind his back.

What was that merry little tune he’d heard in one of the movies the guards at the SHIELD complex had been watching in the break room?

_“Ding Dong the witch is dead! Which old Witch? The Wicked Witch!....Ding Dong' the merry-oh, sing it high, sing it low.”_

And Laufey certainly had been a harsher ruler than the Wicked Witch of the East.

And yet, despite all these reassuring thoughts, he still had to take a deep breath and force his steps across the gate every time they entered the village on market day.

Who was to say that people might not wise up one day and find that they had been mistaken?

For now, what was foremost in their minds was the memories of Laufey's tax collectors bleeding the people dry, of his soldiers being thugs of the vilest sort, casually taking whatever caught their fancy, be it livestock, food or company.

But time would dull those memories, soften the hardships suffered, and one day, would they not recall that the warriors who had died when he had aimed the Bifröst's full force on Jotunheim had been their fathers....brothers....sons?

After the terrible defeat at Odin's hands, when Laufey could not keep his promise of bountiful Midgard becoming the new home of his people and his popularity had waned even amongst the privileged warrior class, a lot of Laufey's soldiers had been men conscripted against their will.

Taking the strongest and most healthy men of each town and village had served a double purpose: it had swelled the ranks of Laufey's army and had hamstrung any attempt of his people to raise a fighting force that would'st have mounted a rebellion against him.

Most of the men left behind in the towns and villages were not much of a threat.

Tjalar had a gimp leg that gave out on him when he ran for too long or moved the wrong way. Aegir and his friends were barely old enough to go courting. The village head-man had only one arm. Vanik, who ran the local tavern, was blind on one eye, courtesy of a firebrand being rammed in his face when he couldn't pay his taxes in full.

The men pressed into service in Laufey's arm were drilled mercilessly; each inkling of rebellion beaten out of them, each show of mindless loyalty lavishly rewarded, until they couldn't tell up from down anymore, let alone right from wrong and their loyalty belonged to Laufey and Laufey alone.

And how many tales had he heard of those who had not joined Laufey's troops out of their free will being the cruelest and harshest of his troops?

The lady running the sausage stand beside their cheese stand on the market, Ingra, was someone with whom he'd sometimes chat a bit when business was slow.

She had a keen sense of observation as well as a wicked sense of humour.

She also had a crooked left arm which she couldn't use properly and she never ever crossed the area in the middle of the market, even when she was carrying heavy crates and taking that particular route would have made more sense.

At the end of a long market day, Ingra would wince whenever she had to put a strain on her arm in order to pack up her things, and one day, Loki had pitched in without a word, lifting the beams from the supports and loading the crates with what was left back into her little goat-drawn cart.

They had worked in silence at first, a silence that she broke when they were half-done.

“His name was Svern" she had said with an easy smile that didn't reach her eyes and a lighthearted tone that bore sharp barbs beneath its' soft petals. . "And ever since we were younglings, I'd hide him in a cave near my house each time there was a rumour that Laufey's soldiers were near, looking for new soldiers to bolster their ranks.

I am one of the few that still have the old magic run strong in their veins, and so I'd transform myself into a snow-spider and spin a thick icy web at the entrance of the cave, a web filled with what little magic I could weave, a web that told everybody who looked upon it "Nothing here. The cave is empty and has been unused a long time. Nothing has entered, nothing has come out....for if there had been, would there be an unbroken web covering the entrance?".

And for a very long time, it worked. We were hopeful. We married. We decided to risk it and I bore him a child. It didn't last. One of Laufey's hunting parties surprised him as he was gathering wood in the forest nine score years ago...and they took him."

She hadn’t looked him in the eye when she told him about how she hadn't seen Svern after he had been taken until one fateful day twenty years ago, when some of Laufey's tax collectors passed through the village, accompanied by Laufey's soldiers.

Ingra had run to her husband, weeping for joy at seeing him again, only to fall to the ground as she reached him and he backhanded her.

He'd then proceeded to offer her as a bed-mate to his superior officer, so all would see and know where his loyalties lay these days, and when Ingra had wept and refused, he'd beaten her until she lay helpless and without resisting on the frozen ground in the middle of the market place.

The officer as well as a good number of the soldiers had then proceeded to make good use of the offer Ingra's husband had made.

Ingra had been playing with her daughter while she spoke, had ruffled the young girl's curls, so unlike Inga's own straight hair, and Loki had felt himself stand straighter as Ingra nodded at him, her lips gently curved in the first honest and happy smile since she had started her tale…..while at the same time feeling himself wilt inside beneath the thoughtfully bland gaze of Ingra's daughter.

Once the little girl grew old enough to fully understand, what would she think of him, knowing he had slaughtered her father in an act of mindless hate and a selfish need to prove himself?

And what of Ingra herself?

Ingra's husband had vested unspeakable horror upon his wife....but how heavily did that one act, committed under the mind-breaking coercion of Laufey's henchmen, weigh compared to the centuries he had loved her?

Time softened memories and made scars fade.

Thinking that there might come a day where Ingra would mourn the killing of her beloved more than the death of the man who had hurt her sent jittery dark wings aflutter in Loki's stomach, making him nauseous.

She didn't blame him now, wouldn't blame him tomorrow...but what about the day after, the week after, the year after?

If Loki had not killed Ingra's wedded husband, there would have still been a chance that one day, the man might have broken free of Laufey's influence, might have returned to her, his heart full of teary regret and ready to make whatever amends were necessary to soothe the pain he had caused.

Loki's actions had robbed her and her daughter of that ever happening.

From that day on, each time he met Ingra and her daughter at the market, he would watch them warily from the corner of his eyes, searching for that first bit of blame in their eyes, arranging and re-arranging the cheeses at his stand until he was sure that there was no trace of it.

Each market day, as he exchanged pleasantries with his customers and watched people bustle around the town square, all of them caught up in their chores and their lives, he wondered who else had lost somebody first to Laufey and then to his own machinations.

Each market day, he wondered when people would start making snide remarks behind his back.

When would they begin to stare at him as if they wished that he dropped dead?

How long would it take for them to insult him openly and spit in his face?

How long until he outstayed his welcome?

And now Meara wanted him to meet other people.

Not just fleetingly and casually as he did at the market, but for a whole long day, working together with them, planning the dives into the lake with them, eating his meals with them.

Meara was still waiting for him at the top of the slope , already waiving at the people below, and with a sinking feeling, he realized that no matter which way he turned or what he did, he’d gotten too complacent, too hopeful and it was only a matter of time until his life went awry, as usual.


End file.
